


Ceremony of Innocence

by furorem



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apocalypse, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, like biblical canon apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2020-03-07 21:56:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18882025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furorem/pseuds/furorem
Summary: The story goes like this: Dean meets Castiel on a Thursday. He’s 24. He’s on a hunting trip. And he hasn’t been home in a few weeks.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Additional tags will be added as the story progresses.

**Prologue**

**Psalm 57:4**

_My soul is among lions: and I lie even among them that are set on fire, even the sons of men, whose teeth are spears and arrows, and their tongue a sharp sword._

 

Sam awakes from hearing a strange noise in the dark. It usually means trouble of the supernatural kind. Granted, he’s left that life behind years ago, but the old instincts are still there, trained into him since early childhood. It’s these instincts that tell him to be careful as he creeps along the dark corridor of his apartment, conscious of his surroundings, muscles tensed.

He doesn’t suspect his father to be the source of the disturbance. It’s strange to see him standing in Sam’s living room after all these years of radio silence. Their last conversation plays in his mind like an old VHS tape. Dad’s last words perfectly clear as a bell, between the rushing of white noise, “If you leave that door - That door will be closed forever. Don’t you dare come back.” Dean’s shocked face in the background.

His father has barely changed. He still wears the look of a man haunted by the literal monsters of his past. Sam mentally debates what to say for a moment, taking in the haggard appearance of his father, his piercing gaze, even in the darkness.

“What are you doing here, Dad?”

At first there is silence. Jess is still sleeping in the other room. It feels weird to be confronted with his old life, the face of this life, so suddenly. Steel enters the already hard eyes of his father as he focuses them on Sam. He feels that whatever John Winchester is about to say won’t be a friendly greeting, an apology or anything pleasant at all.

In that moment, the light in the bedroom and the hallway turns on and Jess walks out of the bedroom, drowsily asking for Sam. She comes to stand beside him, surprised, blinking away sleep, mustering his father head to toe with a certain glint in her eye Sam recognizes. She knows who this stranger is, doesn’t approve of John and why should she? Sam told her as much of the truth as he could, watched as her face became redder and redder from fury until it morphed into concern when he started crying. He is reluctant to introduce them, to drag Jess into any of his family’s mess, but it’s unavoidable if he doesn’t want to raise any questions or let the situation escalate into something ugly.

“Jess, this is my father, John. Dad, this is Jess, my girlfriend.”

“Hello,” she says, deliberately omitting ‘nice to meet you’.

Jess tries not to show her disapproval. She barely manages. John has the decency to extend his hand and shake Jess’ without looking at her scarcely dressed body or commenting on it, seemingly unbothered by her dislike.

Instead his gaze travels back to Sam.

“We need to talk, son. Alone.”

Sam winds a protective hand around Jess’ shoulders. It grounds him at the same time. Like a hissing snake ready to strike its conjurer, he can feel the old familiar anger rising.

“No need. Just spit it out, Dad.”

“Sam,” John says warningly. Sam refuses to budge, long past being intimidated by his father’s military tone. Jess watches the conversation like a hawk, ready to intervene if necessary. A few uncomfortable seconds pass.

“Dean’s on a hunting trip. And he hasn’t been home in a few weeks,” John finally discloses. Underneath the stoic mask he looks worried.

“Maybe he’s finally as fed up with your shit as I am,” Sam half hisses, aware of Jess by his side. He’s squeezing her shoulder too tightly and relaxes his hand.

A guilt-ridden look crosses his father’s face. Just a flash before it’s replaced by the mask of the hunter again.

He answers, “No, Sam. This is different. _We_ need to discuss this.”

Sam shortly contemplates telling his farther that he can keep talking in front of Jess, just to annoy him. He doesn’t. He squeezes her shoulder, gently this time, and places a kiss on her head and tells her that he’ll be back later. She gives him a look - _Are you sure?_ , he nods. If this is about Dean, if something’s happened to him, Sam needs to know and maybe even help out.

He follows his dad outside to the car, not the Impala he notes, but an old SUV. Inside, hidden from potential curious ears, John starts to tell him about their hunts, and of the growing tension, between him and Dean, of the last few months. Listening to his father telling this in an almost monotone voice, without further elaborating what he means by ‘growing tension’, Sam thinks he is glossing over several unsavoury parts of his account.

His story culminates in Dean and John splitting to track the yellow eyed demon, after they had found a magic colt that could kill anything. His dad explains the significance of the colt to him and how angry he was about nearly losing _it and their_ lives due to some mistake Dean had made. It partly explains what ‘growing tension’ means. Dean left after that. Sam doesn’t ask how this particular conversation went down, sure that it would end in him punching his father in hot blooded rage.

Having split up, Dean called only once to let John know where he was and that he’d found a lead. A bit ashamed, to Sam’s satisfaction, his dad admits that he hadn’t checked his phone for days, therefore having missed Dean’s calls and when he tried to call back, it went straight to voicemail, every time.  

Biting his tongue (he really _really_ wanted to hit his father) and focusing on his missing brother, Sam opts to ask, “Where was his last known location?”

A few weeks was a long time, especially for a hunter.  

“Jericho.”

He doesn’t show his father how surprised he is at hearing that Dean was so close but didn’t visit. Then he remembers the last time he talked to his brother and has to suppress the guilt welling up in his gut, settling heavy around his heart, nonetheless. It’s one of the reasons he takes a deep breath and nods.

“Ok. Ok, alright. Lemme just – gimme a few minutes.”

Sam talks to Jess in the early morning hours (unknowing that it’s the last time) with the sun looming behind the horizon, and tries to explain to her what he’s going to do, the best he can, without putting her in danger or disrupting her view on the world. He tells her that he’ll be back on Sunday, after they’ll have checked his brother’s last known location. He kisses her deep and languid, savouring every second of it.  

He doesn’t savour the two days of hunting clues and dead ends with his father - they barely manage to be civil to each other, only holding it together because they know that this is for Dean’s sake- or the ghost, who nearly kills him and they have to take care of.

When he returns, aching and exhausted and ready to fall into bed next to Jess, with no further trace of Dean, but a phone number and the promise to stay in contact and help as best as he can, Jess is on the ceiling, dripping blood, catching flames. This time it is dad who saves him from the fire, who pulls him away from the smoke and the smell of burning flesh, his own screams reverberating in his ears.

Standing outside his burned down apartment, while leaning against his father’s car, full of anger and hurt, after being treated by the paramedics, he turns to John and tells him, “Let’s go find Dean.” He recognizes the mindless fury in his voice, the same tone he’s heard from his father countless times, but doesn’t give a shit.

Right now, he is willing to relinquish the parts of him that he fought so hard to establish, here in Stanford. Anything to take his mind off the numbness that is spreading inside of him like cold water. John Winchester merely nods, something between approval and pity and gestures for Sam to get in the car.

He can’t bear to look back as they drive off.

Sam doesn’t think, doesn’t have an inkling, _doesn’t know_ that it will take several years for him to see his brother again and that their reunion will be far _far_ from what he expects at 20 years old, getting back into a life he thought he’d left behind.


	2. Part I - Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a short depiction of torture.

**Part I - Chapter 1**

**Luke 2:9**

_And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid._

Dean meets Cas on a Thursday. Ironically, as he would later discover.

It isn’t love at first sight, mainly because Dean hasn’t experienced unconditional love since the day his brother was born and he cradled his fragile body in his arms, afraid to hurt him. No.

It isn’t this kind of love. It’s a steady love, reliable, built on trust and adoration, on knowledge and years in the making. It’s a love that happens gradually until eventually Dean is pushed against a wall in a dingy alleyway, Cas crowding into his personal space by holding onto his labels, aligning the sharp lines of his body with Dean’s. The blue of his iris is nearly swallowed by the black of his pupils. The heat, the _feel_ of him, is intoxicating already. It’s not enough and entirely too much after fantasising about this moment for months, perhaps years, if Dean’s honest. It’s scary how _easy_ he is for Cas. This is all it takes for his cock to strain half-hard against his jeans. 

Their breath is mixing in the small space between them, their eyes flitting to half-opened painting lips, neither willing to take the last final step. Cas nudges Dean’s nose with his own, gently, asking for silent permission. Dean nods, giddy with anticipation, scared out of his mind. He closes his eyes, overwhelmed. Their first kiss is brutal and beautiful in its desperation, like everything else they seem to experience together. Cas is pushing against him with his whole body as if he’s trying to crawl into him, to make a home inside of him. His mouth, wet and hot, is claiming Dean’s; is claiming Dean, his _soul_ , his _entire being_ , if the white-hot flames igniting his limbs are any indication.

Cas’ lips, spit-slick, wander – from Dean’s lips, to his cheek, to his vulnerable neck. His hands caress him through the thin material of his ratty t-shirt, leaving a warm trail, find his waist and encircle them, holding him in place as he pushes his pelvis against Dean’s. Dean moans and he hears the wanton sound he produced echoing back to him. Cas is _so_ _fucking hard_ for him. Dean Winchester did that.

Afraid to lose the one good thing he’s allowing himself to have, he holds onto Cas, keeps him close. He shivers as Cas whispers in his ear, wrecked and in a voice that tells him that Cas is so fucking in love with him, “ _Dean.”_

But this story is getting ahead of itself.

Dean meets Castiel on a Thursday. He’s 24.

*

 

He’s been _mostly_ hunting alone since Sam fucked off to Stanford. Dad still hasn’t forgiven him for taking Sam’s side and actually, in secret, encouraging his little brother to go and live his life, to do what makes him happy. But dad doesn’t understand that that’s what Dean’s life consists of, what dad had voluntarily or involuntarily had turned him into to – a father, a mother, a brother. Of course, he took Sammy’s side, despite the fact that it has nearly killed him to do so, _of course_. Dad thinks it’s betrayal, Dean thinks it’s freedom. More than he can ever hope to have. Not that he’d admit that to anyone, especially himself.

After Sam leaves for Stanford in the middle of the night, in a furious rage, his face an ugly grimace from shouting at their father, Dean stays with John for a few more days but ultimately gets fed up. The man drinks himself angry every night and for once in his life Dean wants to be selfish. Sam is gone and Dean is too old and too young at the same time to try to fix the rest of their family.

He packs the few belongings that he owns, while his dad is passed out on the bed, a bottle of whiskey loosely held in his hand, takes the car keys, his dad’s leather jacket and leaves. He drives around aimlessly for hours, his mind caught in this strange twilight of emotions before he settles for the next best thing to family – Bobby.

It takes him a few days to reach the old scrap yard (John never calls), but when he finally does roll into the yard, chased by the summer heat, a smile steals itself onto his features. No matter how much his dad had tried to alienate them from Bobby, the old grump had earned his nickname as Uncle Bobby.

When he knocks on Bobby’s door he is greeted with a hug and Bobby saying, “Good to see ya, boy.”

He is doing research for another hunter, he tells Dean, while opening his hearth and home to him. Dean takes a beer from the fridge, like he belongs, and helps with the research, glad to distract his mind from the open wound his heart has suffered from the abrupt tearing apart of his family.

Once they find what Bobby was looking for, there is nothing else do to but talk, though. Nursing his whiskey, sitting in the old stuffy chair opposite of Bobby’s desk, he tells him about Sam and Stanford and Dad. Bobby listens, acknowledging his story with grunts and nods and swings of his own whiskey. It’s dark outside, the cicadas are singing loudly, once he’s finished and silence descends upon them. Bobby doesn’t say anything for a long while. Dean’s searching for answers at the bottom of a bottle.

Groaning, Bobby eventually rises from his seat, telling Dean, “Ya welcome to stay as long as you like, kid. And doncha worry about John. He’ll come ‘round.”

Choked up, trying to hold the tears at bay, Dean can only reply, “Thanks, Bobby.”

He doesn’t say how the thinks that his father will _never_ come around.

“You know where the guest room is.”

And just like that Bobby leaves the room, leaves Dean to stew in his dark thoughts for a while longer before he, too, goes to bed.

Dean ends up spending the rest of the summer and early autumn at Bobby’s. He spends his days going on hunts around the area, never more than a few hours’ drive away and learns more about how to fix cars, about how to kill a werewolf (even though he doesn’t encounter it himself), how to cook more than food from a can, how to get better at poker. One night, when he’s got a nice buzz going on, he even dares to call Sam. The conversation is brief and stilted. Dean drinks himself to sleep afterwards.

Still, his time with Bobby offers him a kind of stability he didn’t release he needed until he has it. It’s his father who bursts the bubble by calling him one evening, ordering him down to Louisiana for a voodoo related case. Bobby immediately sees how it affects Dean.

“You don’ have to go, Dean. You’re old enough to make your own decisions.”

That might be true, but a huge part of his self-image revolves around being his father’s loyal son and soldier.

Dean leaves Bobby with a heavy heart, a hopeful smile and the promise to return.

He doesn’t. Well, he does, but it would take over a year and several hardships and Cas for him to do so.

After Louisiana, Dean feels too guilt ridden to leave his dad again. He looked horrible, sunken cheeks, bloodshot eyes, the whole nine yards. He shouldn’t have left him so shortly after Sam had left. It was a selfish and nasty thing to do and Dean can’t do it again, has to atone for the sin of leaving his only family alone.

And so Dean puts his drunken ass to bed every night with arms trained on muscle memory on how to handle him best as not to wake him; and so Dean listens to his drunken ramblings of how sorry he is; and so Dean endures the angry shouts after he does something stupid; and so Dean follows him across the country like the good little soldier he is. And so and so and so.

*

 

Dean tracks the yellow eyed demon to California, following omens like a madman, knows he has a lead, a real lead. He calls his dad, who doesn’t answer his phone, surprise surprise, to tell him where he is and that he is getting close. He doesn’t wait for his dad to return the call, knowing that if he does, he might lose the trail. He is only a bit disappointed that dad hasn’t gotten over their argument by now. Shame. They might have been able to visit Sammy together. A real family reunion. He pushes his last conversation with Sam and Sam’s last conversation with their father to the back of his mind.

It was stupid, doing this by himself, in hindsight. Dean hasn’t dealt with demons before, has no frame of references and it shows the moment he is thrown into a wall and knocked unconscious. He berates himself for his stupidity and thinks dad is going to rip him a new one and then it’s lights out.

He wakes up in little bursts, groaning, his head throbbing in pain. Tonguing the inside of his mouth he tastes iron. His wrists and ankles are bound to a wooden chair and he’s completely naked, which is just awesome. It’s fucking cold. On the plus side, Dean observes, he is alone as he begins to scan his surroundings. The cold concrete underneath his feet and the pipes on the wall indicate that he’s held in a barely lit cellar with no windows. There is no way of telling the time. Opposite of him is a steel door, which, after an indescribable amount of time, sitting around and doing nothing, opens with a squeak. Light pours into the room, blinding him momentarily.

Dean hears a person approaching, shoes clacking with each step until they stand before him. A shadow, illuminated by the light. The rancid smell of sulphur permeates the air. He nearly gags.

A hand forcefully takes his chin and turns his face upwards. Dean can practically _feel_ the blood rushing through his veins in sheer terror. Then, another set of footsteps by the door, the light being turned on. He blinks, his eyes adjusting, frantically thinking of a way out of this. His heart is desperately pumping adrenaline into his body.

His captor is totally ordinary: an elderly man with grey hair, except for his eyes. The yellow eyed demon is staring at Dean, a feral grin widening his face into an ugly grimace.

“Look at this. Winchester Jr. I didn’t believe it at first. Don’t you think you’re in over your head, kiddo?” he taunts, letting go of Dean, none too gently.

Dean responds the only way he knows to, “Bite me.”

He had hoped his voice wouldn’t waver and break the illusion of his false bravado, but the demon only grins wider, “Don’t tempt me.”

The person in the background snorts.

Dean startles as the demon leans down to his eye level and drags his nose all along Dean’s face, breathing him in and making a show of it. He strains away from the unwanted ministrations; his stomach churning in disgust. The demon laughs as it straightens back again, taking a step back, revealing that there is only one other demon in the room with them, a woman with brown hair and a round face, watching the scene with a leer.

Yellow Eyes starts talking again, “Now, boy, why don’t you tell me something about your brother. Starting with where he is.”

The inquiry catches him off guard. What the hell do they want with Sam? It doesn’t matter, he figures. His situation is fucked and Dean knows that whatever he tells them they will kill him regardless, so he keeps his mouth shut, ready to die instead of selling his brother out to these bastards. Yellow Eyes laughs.

“We can do this the hard way or the very painful way. Suit yourself.”

And then Dean feels like his inside are crushed by a truck, blood is pouring out his mouth, together with a pained grunt.

It only gets worse after this.

For weeks his world narrows down to blood and pain. Day after day, Yellow Eyes asks the same question and day after day Dean keeps quiet or throws curses at him. Alone in the darkness, reduced to his most basic needs, Dean cries and silently pleads for his dad to find him, for anyone to find him. He isn’t a faithful person, has lost that faith when his mother died, but being hungry and thirsty and in pain leads to him praying for anyone who listens to come and save him.

No one does.

Instead it’s more of him being ripped apart, inside and outside, his flesh being burned, nails being ripped out, the female demon with the brown hair feeding him just to keep him alive etc. etc., just so Yellow Eyes, and after a while another demon with a nasal voice, can heal him and do it all over again.

Somewhere along the way, between the blood in his mouth and the tears in his eyes, Dean breaks and tells them where Sam lives, begging for them to stop. Laughing, they do, come back a few days later and keep going. But Dean, already hating himself for what he did, for breaking, anticipates it and welcomes it. Atonement. He’s used to it. Wondering why he’s not dead yet.

They keep asking questions about his family, about Sam, taunting and mocking him. Then comes the day when Nasal Voice asks him something different before he starts, his hand tilting Dean’s head upwards almost gently.

“Do you want me to stop? All you have to say is ‘ _yes_ ’,” he’s whispering the last part into Dean’s ear like the serpent himself, trying to seduce him. Dean shudders and spits at him. Nasal takes it personal. _Good_.     

After weeks or months, he’s lost track of time by now, something in the routine of ‘say yes’, torture, pain changes. Nasal Voice is pushing the tip of his knife into Dean’s sternum, ready to get started, when the door bursts open and sparks fly from the exploding lights. Startled by the unwanted intrusion, the demon turns around, a snarl on his lips. Dean can see how his back straightens, muscles locking into place, ready to fight.

As the intruder advances with quick heavy steps into the room, Dean catches a glimpse of a beige coat and brown hair. He’s too stunned to be happy about whatever is going on. The feeling only intensifies when black smokes emerges from the demon and his body crumbles to the floor, lifeless.

The air gets stuck in Dean’s throat, his heartbeat accelerating. If a demon flees from his opponent, it can’t be a good sign. Bracing himself, Dean watches wide eyed as the man kneels down to inspect the body for a second, then stands up and walks over to Dean. It’s the first time he gets a good look at this guy’s face and it’s the eyes that struck Dean. They are blue and pierce him, laying bear his soul. Dean is naked and filthy, but it’s nothing compared to this. Whatever _this_ is.

This person isn’t human and obviously more powerful than these demons. A cold shiver runs down his spine.

“Who are you? What are you?” he croaks, his voice raspy from screaming. At least he wants to know what kills him before he bites the dust.

The other man approaches him slowly, completely different than he approached the demon, as if Dean is as unpredictable as a caged animal. It might be true at this point.

He answers in a dark, gravelly voice, “Castiel. I’m an Angel of the Lord.”

Dean doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So he does the only logical thing.

“Bullshit.”

Castiel only regards him with a puzzled expression, his head tilting a little. He doesn’t say anything anymore, just raises his hand to Dean’s forehead. Dean flinches away, certain that more pain awaits him, but Castiel lays two fingers on him, a tingly sensation floods his body, and suddenly all his physical pain is gone and so are the shackles binding him to the chair.

Astounded he takes stock of his body, his freedom and looks up at Castiel with big eyes.

“No way. No fucking way. Angels don’t exist.”

Catiel raises an eyebrow and responds, “Yet you prayed, didn’t you?”

Dean wants to say something in his defence, but a trouble expression overcomes Castiel’s face.

“I’ll gladly discuss the philosophical question of existence with you later, but we need to go. Now.”

The panicked expression on Castiel’s face alerts him enough to make him stand up on wobbly legs, which might have been rash because they’re numb and not used to holding his, by now strikingly decreased, weight anymore. Funny how your body can betray you so easily yet keep you stubbornly alive. Luckily, Castiel is there to catch him and fucking teleport them somewhere else.

If he could, he would empty his stomach onto the car floor to which Castiel has brought them. After the initial vertigo of the journey, Dean notices that he’s in the backseat of the Impala, his Baby still parked where he left her.

He hates his next words. They’re born out of necessity.

“Can you drive?”

Castil, who sits in the front seat, turns to him with wide eyes.

“I can try.”

There’s a moment where they regard each other. Dean sighs, reaches for a shirt he can put over his bony body and climbs over the seat. Everything hurts. Even though it shouldn’t.

He can’t believe he’s driving without shoes, jeans, an oncoming headache and an angel next to him. Dean can barely keep his eyes open and nearly cries in relief as the next motel sign shows up and he can park the car.

“Can you rent the room at least?” he asks as he turns to Castiel and promptly has a finger to his forehead again that sends him into one of the rooms.

Castiel’s responds, “No need.”

“Dude,” Dean lamely complains.

In the stillness of the room, the last hour catches up to Dean. From outside he can hear cars racing by, their light coming and going in white-red flashes, inside the humming of electricity.

It’s too much. All of it: the memory of the last weeks, his rescue, the sudden explosion of life around him, Castiel. _Castiel_.

Exhausted, he glides onto the bed, uncaring that he’s still half naked, closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths.

“What day is it?” he asks and remembers his brother. He sits up suddenly, fighting against the dizziness.

“ _Shit_ we need to go find Sam! I-,” guilt ridden he can’t bring himself to finish.

“Thursday, the 2nd of November. And your brother is fine, Dean.”

He relaxes at those words, but the irony of the date doesn’t go unnoticed by him. He swallows the tears threatening to spill over.

“I need a drink, preferably yesterday,” is all he can say at the news. He hears a flutter, a disturbance in the air and opens his eyes to see that Castiel is gone. Which is awesome. Freaking fantastic. Just as he’s cursing the angel, Castiel reappears. In his hands are two bottles of alcohol.

“I don’t know what your preferences are, but I assumed that you would like something strong, so I got these,” Castiel explains.

Stunned, Dean looks at the bottles in his hand, his eyes widening comically.

“These are – _Jesus fuck_ , these are the most expensive whiskeys in the world,” Dean says, secretly wondering if Castiel has lied to him. Castiel merely shrugs and walks over to take a seat next to him on the bed and hands him the bottles. Flabbergasted Dean regards the labels before he decides to open the Dalmore and takes a large sip and another and another, barely appreciating the taste. Until his fingers stop trembling.  

“So why would an angel rescue me?” Dean slurs as soon as he’s able to form words, already tipsy. Immediately he’s aware how much he gave away with this simple question and feels embarrassed. But Castiel is looking at him without judgement. He is silent. Then he folds his hands in his lap, staring at them.

“I wasn’t supposed to. Heaven still has plans for you, but I couldn’t,” he heaves a long sigh, “I couldn’t watch any longer. This wasn’t right,” he turns to Dean, his gaze intense, “You deserved to be saved. Our father told us to protect humankind.”

Dean turns to him and sees the anguish on Castiel’s face. He suspects there is more to his words. He sees but doesn’t understand. And how could he? He has never seen an angel before, has never spoken to one. Thought they were a myth.

Tentatively, Dean reaches out, desperate for something to say, “Our father – you mean God?” Castiel nods.

“If _God_ commanded you to protect us, who told ya, you know, not? Is there anythin’ bigger than God?”

He shouldn’t have this conversation. It’s ridiculous. Yet, Dean really wants, _needs_ , to understand. Castiel gets a contemplating expression on his face.

“I suppose there are forces more powerful than God. But those who told us to … _watch_ are my, uhm, superiors. Michael has taken over control after God disappeared.”

Pressure is building behind Dean’s eyelids, not the kind that accompanies drunkenness. He takes another gulp from the bottle, sets it down on the nightstand and stands up. Yep, so it’s true. God has left the building.

“I’m gonna take a shower and then I’m gonna hit the sack. Jes - _fuck_ I - I need sleep. We’ll talk about this in the morning,” Dean says, too exhausted to wrap his head around all the new information, too depressed.

In the shower Dean scrubs himself red with hot water, his skin nearly burning. He likes it, feels a little bit better as the heat and the soap washes away the stench that seems to cling to him. He stays longer than normal due to tears steadily flowing down his face and mixing with the water to disappear down the drain. Castiel may have healed his body, but the scars on his soul are still open and bleeding.

As he emerges back in the room after his silent breakdown in the bathroom, Castiel is walking around the room, drawing strange symbols on the walls.

“What are you doin’, Cas?” Dean asks, doesn’t know where the nickname comes from, but is too tired to care.

Castiel glances at him sideways, draws another circle and says, “Protection sigils. I think it would be wise to teach them to you tomorrow.”

Cas finishes the sign and turns to see Dean standing at the foot of his bed, watching out of bloodshot eyes, exhaustion radiating from him.

Quietly he says, “Go to sleep, Dean. I’ll watch over you.”

Dean obeys, hitting the mattress with a grunt. The irony of Cas’ words is not lost on him.

“My mom used to say that angels are watching over me,” Dean mumbles into his pillow and sleeps.

*

Dean wakes with a feeling of dread and fury, bathed in sweat. Half asleep his brain is too slow to catch up, still thinking he’s in that godforsaken - _ha_ \- cellar. Once he’s awake these feelings turn into anger and hate. Now, more than ever, he wants to find and kill the yellow eyed demon. And his companion on top of that. With Castiel by his side he might have a real chance.

During breakfast, his first real meal after weeks, he growls with his mouth half-full, “I want to find the fucker and kill him.”

Castiel sits opposite of him watching him eat with curious eyes and a strange half-smile, which falls at Dean’s words.

“Dean, I understand, but -,” Cas starts.

Dean cuts him off, already disappointed and pissed, “Listen, Cas. I’m gonna find that son of a bitch and kill him, with or without you.”

Cas’ hand shoots out, fists itself in Dean’s t-shirt and drags him forward, their faces only separated within a hairsbreadth.

“You listen to me – I risked _everything_ to safe you! How about you don’t get us both killed right away by doing something stupid? Every demon and every angel is searching for us. Use your head.”

Cas’ eyes are boring into him angrily. Gulping, he can only nod. For the first time he is reminded that Cas is powerful and scary and could vaporize him in a second. Cas releases him and leans back in the chair with a huff, Dean’s hand is rubbing nervously over his face.

“Ok, calm down, dude. What do suggest we do?”

Castiel tilts his head sideways as if listening to something. His eyes flit to Dean’s.

“I suggest we ward ourselves first,” he pauses to turn his head back, locking his eyes with Dean’s, “Then we find out what heaven and hell are planning. This is bigger than you think, Dean. Vengeance alone won’t solve this. But it’s a start,” he admits.  

“So - we do go and find Yellow Eyes?” Dean asks, suspicious but intrigued.

“His name is Azazel. But yes,” Cas confirms with a nod.

Seeing the look on Deans face he adds, “To ask him questions, first, Dean.”

Dean leans back in his chair, scrutinizing the angel opposite of him. He is still distrustful somehow. Not entirely convinced this isn’t just a ploy. Sure, Cas saved his hide last night, but for all he knows it is just a ruse and Cas is a double agent in disguise. Or something else. Cas must have felt his hesitation. His head tilts.

“You still don’t trust me. After everything I did,” he says.

Dean’s eyebrow raises at the tone. The angel nearly sounded insulted.

“Pf, of course I don’t,” Dean scoffs, eyebrows drawing together, provoking him deliberately. Trust doesn’t come easy to him, even more so after his impromptu rescue. In Dean’s experience there’s always a catch. Immediately, he realises his mistake of speaking so frankly, though as Cas raises to his feet slowly, leans over the table, a thunderous expression on his face, accompanied by real thunder in the distance. A flash of lightning. Castiel’s eyes burn bright blue. On the wall behind him shadowy wings appear and unfurl. Dean watches with fascination and trepidation, his heart racing at the destructive beauty displayed.

When Castiel open his mouth to speak, Dean has to clap his hands over his ears for a second until he seems to regulate himself and tries again, voice booming in the small room, “Do not dare to question my motives, Dean Winchester. I am here to help.”

He deflates after his little display of power, the thunder’s receding, his eyes suddenly back to normal, pleading and desperate, “And I need your help in return.”

Dean, still shocked, can only nod dumbly and swallows to wet his dry throat, while wrapping his head around the fact that he‘ll obviously drive around the country with an angel as his partner. An angel who can smite him when he’s finally fed up with Dean’s ungrateful attics.

*

So this is what they do: Tempers calmed, Dean packs his stuff and leaves the motel just before check-out, the clerk never knowing that someone slept in the room. Destination still unknown.

Dean had thought about Sam briefly, toying with his necklace (which has survived this whole ordeal for some miraculous reason) but knowing that he was safe, he didn’t see a reason to drag him into this mess. Then there’s John. But without his phone he has no way of contacting his father, seeing as it is hard enough to get a hold of him anyway. And maybe he doesn’t want to, his inner voice whispers. The feelings of betrayal poisoning his mind now that he’s free.

To his credit, Dean isn’t aware of what has transpired while he was being tortured within an inch of his life and Cas, at this point still secretive and afraid, isn’t forthcoming about his knowledge of Dean’s family either. The moment this changes, it’s too late for Dean to turn back, too far down the rabbit hole.

For now, they settle into the car.

“You mentioned somethin’ about wards. How do we do that? I can -,” Dean says, sitting behind the wheel. Before he can finish his sentences, Cas interrupts him by lying his hand on Dean’s chest. Alarmed, still skittish after the last few weeks, Dean raises his arms, saying, “Dude, what the fuck?”

It changes nothing, though. Cas’ hand is on him for a second, a tingling sensation shooting through him, before he draws it back and leans against the seat. Dean rubs his sternum and tries to chase the weird sensation away, but to no avail.

“What did you do?” he asks incredulously.

Without turning to look at him, Cas states, “I carved enochian protection signs into your ribs. No angel nor demon should be able to locate you now, unless you pray for them. Including myself.”

Dean blinks and turns his gaze to his chest, as if he could see them, then sighs and puts Baby into gear. This is his life now, apparently.  

“Give me a fucking warning next time,” he grumbles.  

His first stop is Bobby’s. Because he trusts the man. Because he usually knows where to start. Because he is the only real option. Cas doesn’t understand, at first, but he doesn’t understand a lot of things as Dean figures out soon enough. Nevertheless, Dean gets used to his company scarily fast. Which, Dean knows, has a lot to do with his aversion to being alone. During the ride, Dean tries to weasel as much information about heaven as possible out of Cas. He mostly tells him about the hierarchy of angels by comparing it to the structures of human military and quietly confesses that he himself is basically a deserter. An uncomfortable silence fills the car afterwards. Dean is too floored by the admission, doesn’t know how to respond to an angel telling him that saving him meant going against the chain of command. Whatever doubts Dean had still harboured vanished at that moment. The same can’t be said for Cas.

“I’m still doubtful whether your drunken uncle can help us,” Cas says sceptically as they approach Bobby’s yard.

Dean, overly protective when it comes to family, bristles and hisses, “Watch it, Cas. He’s family. And the only one I trust right now.”

The last statement was a low blow, he acknowledges that, as Cas frowns at him, but it was well deserved. Cas is still frowning as Dean parks the Impala and walks towards Bobby’s house. He knocks and shortly after, the door swings open to reveal a beaming Bobby, who gives him one of those big bear hugs.

“You oughta call more often, son,” he says as he disentangles himself from Dean, then sees Cas, who stands behind him, fixing Bobby with a stare.

“Who’s your friend?” he asks.

Hearing the suspicion and confusion in Bobby’s voice, Dean awkwardly scratches his head and says, “Let’s talk ‘bout this inside. While you sit.”

Bobby leads them into the living room, where he seats himself behind the desk. Dean and Cas come to a stop in the middle of the room and are faced with Bobby’s expectant expression. This is what it must feel like to be called to the boss’ office for some major fuck up.

“Eh, Bobby, this is Cas. Cas,” he motions between them, “Bobby. Cas is, uhm,” Dean says and stops, no idea how to tell the truth without alarming the older man. Before he can continue, Cas says, “I’m an angel.”

Silence. Bobby musters them, his eyes drifting between the two of them, trying to figure something out.

“I’m sure you are,” he hesitantly begins, “That a codeword or somethin’? I’m not up to date with your kids’ slang.”

Mortified, eyes as big as saucers, Dean realises what Bobby thinks and says, “No. Oh my g- no. It’s not like that.”

“You know I ain’t judging, kiddo.”

“Cas is a literal angel, Bobby,” Dean says, exasperated. Dean needs this conversation to be over. Like right now.

He doesn’t say anything in return and lets his gaze sweep over Cas, who stands next to Dean in his trench coat and rumbled accountant outfit, and who meets Bobby gaze head on.

The silence is nearing the border to uncomfortable as tension grows thicker, nearly cuttable with a knife. The thin hairs at the back of Dean’s neck start to prickle. Slowly, Bobby rises from his seat and says, “Have you checked him?”

Dean winces. He hasn’t. But why should he have done so? He’s seen and heard enough. Dean is quiet for a second too long. Long enough for Bobby to realise. He curses under his breath. Dean thinks he hears a quiet ‘idjit’.  

Cas, interrupting his mumbling, speaks, “I assure you, I’m no demon. Or anything else for that matter.”

Bobby answers, “How ‘bout we test that, huh?”

More uncomfortable silence. Until Cas eventually relents.

“I’ll gladly let you “test“ me if that makes you more comfortable.”

Bobby nods, pulls a flask from a drawer and throws the contents into Cas’ face. Water dripping from his hair and nose, he simply blinks and licks the liquid from his lips. The sight is something to behold. Cas, Angel of the Lord, looking like an annoyed wet cat. It makes Dean laugh. So hard that he has to bend. Bobby only grumbles and continues the usual spiel until he realises that nothing happens.

“Finished?” Cas asks and snaps his fingers to clean himself up as Bobby dips his head in affirmation and leans, with crossed arms, against his table.

“So, you’re an angel. How does this,” he gestures at Cas, “Work?”

It’s the first time Dean thinks about it. Bobby is right. He once told him that demons need a vessel to walk the earth. Were angels different? Did they have a storage of bodies somewhere? But this was stupid. The realisation that Cas might possess someone twists his stomach in knots.

“This is a vessel. His name is Jimmy Novak. He’s a devout man who prayed for this. I’m not hurting him, if that’s what you think. He had to give his permission first,” Cas explains.

It eases the knots, but only slightly and not the tension in the room. They have to take Castiel’s word for it.

“Why don’t we settle down, pour ourselves a drink and Cas and I’ll explain why we’re here botherin’ you,” Dean tries to placate Bobby, who sits, still a bit warily. “Great.”

They sit down, each in a corner of the room, and Dean begins talking about the colt, the fight with his dad, how he had started hunting down the omens himself, followed the lead and when he comes to the part where he got captured, Bobby curses and nearly throttles Dean himself. He’s not ready to talk about what has happened while he was in captivity, but he tries to give a brief overview for the information’s sake. Nobody comments on his wavering voice or clenched fists. When Dean tells him about his rescue, while giving Cas stolen glances out of the corner of his eyes, Bobby’s demeanour towards the angel changes. The hostility turns into respect and gratitude and just like Dean, Bobby, delayed, seems to realise, that Castiel is an actual freaking Angel. He tips his glass towards the entity which occupies half of the room with its mere presences and has watched the conversation until now, quietly.

“Why doncha just use your mojo or whatever and find the son of the bitch?”

Castiel leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees.

“Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. I disobeyed a direct order. I-,” ashamed he bows his head, “I will have to keep myself hidden. If I use my powers eccentrically, I’m in danger. Dean is in danger.”

A strange look passes over his face at those words, but Dean doesn’t know him well enough to decipher what it means, but his instincts once again tell him that there’s more to it.

Dean takes over, “We need your help tracking these assholes. You’re our best shot, Bobby.”

Bobby stares at them, then sighs and pours himself some more whiskey. His world is about to get a lot more complicated, he thinks. But not helping is out of the question. He’d die for Dean and Sam Winchester.  

It’s late. The sun has long sinced kissed the sky goodbye. Bobby decides that the both of them have told him enough for today and no way is he going to start tracking a demon in the middle of the night. He vanishes upstairs into his bedroom, leaving the duo to deal with themselves.

Dean follows shortly after.

The next morning, he wakes up groggy from the nightmares which chased him the previous night. Castiel, who reads as Dean enters the living room, gives him a very knowing, very concerned look. Dean wants to snap at him for it, his mood worsening.

It wouldn’t change anything, he thinks, and walks into the kitchen to brew coffee and stew in his shame and anger. The smell wakes Bobby. Together they eat breakfast, a stark reminder to the previous year plus Castiel’s comapany. It’s hilarious how the guy pokes at his eggs, bacon and toast; each item is closely inspected, sniffed and eaten. Dean watches bemused and eats the rest after Cas states that he doesn’t see the appeal in food since he’s unable to differentiate between the tastes.

Chewing, he replies, “We’ll get you there, buddy.”

Cas is doubtful. But he helps with dishes anyway after Bobby announces that he’s going to gather some books. Dean has always found comfort in mundane everyday tasks, especially those that bring some tidiness into his usual chaotic life. Washing and drying the plates, cutlery and pan with Cas, who is quiet and lost in thought, is meditative, tranquil. A kind of peace, domesticity even, he’s unused to. Dean mourns it a little when they’re finished and join Bobby.

“So you said the fucker is called Azazel, right? He seems like a real sonuvabitch,” Bobby says, a thick book open before him. “Should we try to summon him?”

Cas, who is leaning against the wall, crosses his arms and answers, “I doubt he’s going to show up. He knows about my presence. He’ll know it’s a trap.”

“Can’t we force him somehow?” Dean asks with a crease between his brows to which Cas shakes his head.

“No. He’s a fallen angel, not completely demonic. And even then – a lot of the time summonings are, ah, comparable to prayers. We are able to hear them, but we don’t need to answer them,” he explains. The statement annoys Dean to a point where he has to bite his tongue. His next words are still tinged in bitterness.

“So basically, like a phone call and you can press decline. Great. Any other ideas?”

Bobby looks at him with concern and empathy. And shrugs. There’s a moment of silence where they’re all deep in their own thoughts.

Dean is the one to break it. He turns to Cas and asks, “You really can’t do anything?”

A pained expression crosses his face. “No, Dean. I’m sorry.”

Dean expects it after yesterday’s conversation and Cas’ overall skittishness, but it stills a bummer. In that moment one of Bobby’s many phones starts ringing. He excuses himself with a grunt, walks over and talks to whoever just called. Dean and Cas watch, unsure what else to talk about. Glancing at Cas, Dean feels guilty for dragging him here, for promising him that Bobby could help and having nothing to show.

The man comes into the room, taking off his cap to scratch his head. Something is up.

“What is it, Bobby?” Dean asks warily.

“Could you boys do me favour? Sarah just called. There’s a haunting in Custer, Black Hills. Asked if I knew someone who could take a look at it,” Bobby says. It earns him squinty eyes from Cas and a frown from Dean.

“Tell you what. Take care of this ghost and I’ll go back to research while you’re away. It’s only a coupla of hours’ drive.”

Green meets blue in silent conversation. Eventually Dean sighs and nods despite the stink eye Cas is giving him.

“Ya ok.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Feel free to point out any mistakes, thanks.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Thanks for the kudos and the comment. I really do appreciate it.  
> 2\. For those reading: Sorry that it takes me a while to update. I write whenever I've got time to do so, which sometimes isn't a lot.

**Chapter 2**

**Hebrew 1:14**

_Are not all angels ministering spirits sent to serve those who will inherit salvation?_

It’s strange and hilarious, Dean thinks. Perhaps he should invest in a bumper sticker – _An Angel is my Co-Pilot_. He briefly considers sharing that joke but decides against it when he sees Cas’ constipated expression. Laughter replaced by worry.

“What’s up? You look like you need to take a shit. Do angels need to, you know, relief themselves?”

Cas stares out the windscreen stoically as he answers, “We don’t share human’s physiologies and needs. Although, I have brother and sisters who enjoy what humanity has to offer.”

All kinds of dirty thoughts enter Dean’s mind. Grinning, he turns to Cas, “Yeah? And what, pray tell, parts do they like best?”

With a confused expression he stares at Dean, “I cannot speak for the preferences of-,” he stops to regard Dean’s leer with squinted eyes before he sighs, “You’re incorrigible.”

Dean laughs a little at that.

“Damn right, baby. I am.” Short silence. “You didn’t answer my initial question. What’s up with the long face?”

“Objectively speaking I don’t think this vessel has a long face, but –”

“Cas. It’s an expression. I just want to know what’s on your mind,” Dean interrupts him.  

Annoyed, Cas leans his head back against the seat. He’s grumbling something under his breath, swallowed by the music.  

“Human transportation is slow, claustrophobic. It needs getting used to. And you still haven’t properly explained to me why it’s of import to take this case instead of searching for Azazel.”

He fixes his blue eyes on Dean, watching him with raised brows and a small grease forming between them. Strange, how God apparently commanded them to watch over humanity, but didn’t give them the capacity to grasp humanity in its essence. Well, the good humanity has to offer at least. Dean drums his finger on the steering wheel.  

“Because we have no clue where he is, no real lead and you refuse to use your powers. This, on the other hand, is nearby. I can fight it, while saving people. That’s a good thing, you know,” Dean says, one hand gripping the wheel while the other changes cassettes.

He can feel Cas still staring at him, assessing him with that soul-searching look. Gripping the steering wheel tighter, leather creaking, Dean looks at him with a frown.

“What?”

Cas doesn’t answer, irritating Dean even more.

“For fucks sake, what is it, Cas?”

“I think I’m beginning to understand,” he says eventually and cryptically.

Still frowning Dean asks, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

But Cas has stopped looking at him and watches the road instead, telling Dean to do the same. Anger flares in him at the obvious dismissal. He knows, though, that he won’t be able to get the answer out of Cas. If there’s one thing Dean has learned about him, in the short span of time, is that he’s a stubborn son of a bitch. Huffing, he turns up the volume - _There's an angel on my shoulder, in my hand a sword of gold Let me_ – and changes the song, proper pissed at the interpretations it conjures on different levels. In the dark, Castiel, hopefully, doesn’t see him blush.

They arrive in Custer in the middle of the night. From what Dean can make out in the darkness, it’s kind of idyllic with its rolling hills, mountains and snow covered trees. The small part of him that appreciates this part of the job, experiencing new places, is actually looking forward to seeing it during the day. Dean parks Baby in the lot of a motel, which looks better than what he usually sleeps in, wakes the nightshift, pays for a double, a pair of queens, and drags his tired ass over to the Impala to get Cas and his duffel.

Inside their room, he takes the closest bed to the door without discussing it, just lets himself fall onto the mattress, bouncing a few times just for the fuck of it. Cas watches him with a raised eyebrow and states, “I don’t need sleep. The second bed was unnecessary.”

Dean mulls his words over, then shrugs.

“Yeah, well, keepin’ up appearances.”

Cas still stands next to the closed door like a statue.

“Dude, c’mon and relax. Sit somewhere, you’re making me nervous.”

Cas does as he’s told and takes a seat on the other bed, back ramrod straight, hands on his thighs.

“‘Keeping up appearances’ seems exhausting. And imbecilic,” Cas says with a pout. Dean doesn’t even try to figure out what caused it. He can take a good guess, though. He only half-smiles at Cas’ expression, even though the words hit a little bit closer to home than he’s comfortable with. He suspects the same is true for Cas.  

“Welcome to the human experience. Besides, takes one to know one, Mister I Won’t Use My Powers Because They May Expose Me,” he jokes.  

Castiel’s eyes muster him for an uncomfortable moment, blue burning his soul. He has to swallow and blink, squirming like an insect under the microscope. How has the situation turned so quickly?

“Don’t play dumb, Dean. That’s not what this conversation was about,” Cas says sternly, his words more a command than a statement. Dean can only nod, transfixed by the angel, his tone of voice.

Unnerved by the fact that nearly every conversation with Cas either leads to passive-aggressiveness or uncomfortable semi-truths Dean decides to do the most logical thing: avoid the problem by taking a shower.

Cas hasn’t moved when Dean returns. Shaking his head, he reclaims his bed and turns on the TV.

“Cas? Relax. Lie down and watch some TV with me. And when I’m off to Lalaland you can watch over me. Or whatever,” Dean says a bit embarrassed and snuggles under the sheets to hide from it. Fuck, he’s tired.

“I wasn’t aware you were capable of Astral projection.”

Dean closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He’s _so_ fucking tired.

“It’s an expression. It means when I’m sleeping and dreaming,” he explains. Then he sees the little smirk on Cas’ face. Son of a bitch. Dean throws a pillow at his head.  

Castiel is silent after that and during the movie, which he seems to follow with rapt attention whenever Dean steals a glance at him. It doesn’t take long for Dean to fall asleep.

He is no stranger to nightmares, but this night he dreams of Yellow Eyes and Nasal Voice, the weeks of pain. He begs them to stop, screams for help, but they just laugh as they flay him alive. It’s early dawn when he startles awake, the sun has just started creeping over the horizon, casting the room into half-shadows. Disoriented he looks around, chest heaving, heart racing, realising that he’s safe when his eyes catch Castiel’s. Cas, who watches him with concern and rises before Dean can snap at him for staring, embarrassed by his weakness. Instead his eyes follow, confused, as Cas takes the two steps to walk over to Dean’s bed, sits down next to him carefully, curls his hand around Dean’s head and settles him against his belly. Dean is too gobsmacked by the whole thing to protest or fight it and leans against Cas, closing is eyes in exhaustion. Deep inside he can admit to himself how nice this feels.

“Go back to sleep, Dean,” Cas whispers, one hand settling like a protective shield over his head.  

Dean does just that and sleeps peacefully afterwards. They don’t talk about it the next morning when Dean entangles himself, blushing to his roots and by the time they eat breakfast, it’s all but forgotten. Except, something has changed in their dynamic. Dean can’t put his finger on it, not yet, but he doesn’t have a bad feeling about it.

He’s happily munching on his bacon, Cas across from him, neither eating nor drinking when an idea crosses his mind. The guy hasn’t been on earth for very long and could still learn some stuff and just like Dean has thought, the landscape that surrounds them is beautiful in the daylight. He swallows his last piece, washes it down with coffee and says with as much courage he can muster, “We could visit Mount Rushmore while we’re here.”

Incomprehension is on Cas’ face as he asks, “Why should we go there?”

Caught off guard, Dean feels his ears heating up. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that Cas would react that way. The guy is an angel on a mission, he has no need or understanding of sightseeing or doing things for fun. And he’s right. Angry at himself for various reasons, Dean isn’t even remotely ready to explore, he slams down his coffee with more force than necessary.

“Forget it,” he fumes, already taking out his wallet to count bills.

Castiel’s hand, soft but strong, stop him in his motions.

“If you’d like to see it, we can go, Dean. I didn’t -,” he stops, retracts his hand as he sees Dean’s startled expression.

“I just don’t see the purpose of visiting a sight which honours four men, who have brought bloodshed to this country. It seems – morbid,” he says, watching Dean with concern. His hands are tightly intertwined atop the table.

From a purely logical standpoint, Cas is right and it somehow lessens Dean’s own excited. Sighing, he sweeps his hands over bis face, swearing under his breath.

“It’s what people do for fun, you know? It doesn’t mean we to _approve_ what these guys did,” Dean says as an idea comes to him.

“Listen. People do and say a lot of awful stuff in the name of religion and yet you can admire a beautiful cathedral or or or go to church to pray, right? You get my point?”

Cas nods, slowly.

“Good. If it makes you feel better, we can also visit Crazy Horse. ‘twas just a suggestion anyway,” Dean mutters, somewhat disappointed, putting the money on the table, unable to look at Cas any longer.

“Dean,” Cas says, catching his attention. Reluctantly, Dean looks at him.

“We can do both of these things. I apologize, I wasn’t aware of how important it is to you.”

“It’s not-,” Dean starts, sees Cas open expression and finishes, “Yeah, ok. Ok. Business before pleasure, though.”

As he stands and puts on his jacket, he tries suppressing the smile which stems from the strange happiness flooding his body.  

*

Bobby’s contact had told them that the haunting took place in an old ghost town just a few miles west of Custer. A fact which delights Dean to no end. The grin he is sporting splits his face in half. His love for western movies, combined with random knowledge about the westward movement, tumbles out of his mouth uncontrolled like an avalanche.

Cas can’t help himself but comment, once again, on Dean’s strange interests, “I have a hard time understanding how you can be so enthusiastic about a time which was characterized by hardship and a rough lifestyle.”

“You have a hard time understanding humans in general, E. T.”

“What did you just call me?” Castiel asks with utter confusion.  

Rolling his eyes, Dean answers, “Forget it. We’re here.”

Although it’s winter, the sun is shining and the sky is clear and blue above them. In the midst of the white hills, the old ghost town, Four Mile, is a real eyecatcher. Dean is vibrating with excitement as he parks Baby in front of the entrance, the rough gravel scrunching beneath the tires. There are two other cars. Which is good, he thinks. It gives them the privacy of investigating without unwanted eyes watching them sceptically. Getting out of the car, Dean hands Cas an EMF for him to hide in his coat. As always Cas is confused by human (or in this case hunter) customs and turns it around and around while trying to figure out what he’s holding. Dean explains it to him as they are walking towards the entrance, a bit proud that he built it himself.

Only a brunette woman with a big woollen hat is manning the ticket booth slash souvenir shop slash entrance hall as they enter and greets them cheerily while simultaneously engaging in some small talk - Cas observes the conversation quietly, his presence never really forgotten, the way he hovers behind Dean -  and waves them off on their merry way after Dean pays for him and Cas (and silently figures out that she doesn’t know more than the general history of the place). Money might become a small problem in the future, he muses as he puts his wallet away. Cas would have to learn to pull his weight.  

“She’s probably delighted by the haunting,” Dean mutters as they enter the town; can imagine that it helps the business during winter season. He feels a little bit of regret that he has to take that from her. But that’s life. Cas doesn’t answer.

The little ghost town is exactly that: little. And old. Several half-dilapidated buildings stand in rows around a big plaza, all of them displaying that they had a different purpose once, inhabited countless lives. Dean takes a second to enjoy it, imagines he’s just another tourist, doing a road trip with a friend. With that thought he unconsciously turns around to Cas, whose gaze sweeps over the buildings with a scrutinizing expression. The light catches his profile just right and for a moment Dean is struck by how angelic he looks. How handsome, too. He coughs to shake himself out this train of thought. To his embarrassment, it catches Cas’ attention as if the guy was attuned to Dean’s every ailment.

Covering up his embarrassment, Dean says, “Get the EMF. We should start checking the place. Need to find out how to stop the son of a bitch.”

Cas shakes his head, wearing a stoic expression.

“There is no need. I can feel them.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up.

“ _Them_?”

“Yes. Souls. They’re trapped. Something - someone is keeping them bound to this realm. They’re reaching out to me,” he says, his hands balling into fists.

Cas just might be the best thing to have ever happened to Dean.

“Dude. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? You can fuckin’ sense ghosts? Do we even need to salt and burn? Or can you just find the thing that keeps them bound and you know,” Dean snaps his finger for emphasis.

Cas looks troubled.

„Usually, yes. But I’ve already told you. The more I use my powers, the more likely the chance of unwanted company. We’re going to do this your way,” he says while his eyes bore into Dean’s, a silent challenge.

“Great. Like that’s gonna be easy with the history this place has,” Dean complains.

“If I remember correctly, you glorified the Wild West not only an hour ago.”

Dean glares at him and sees that Cas tries to hide a smirk.

“Shut up, Cas.”

He starts wandering around, EMF in hand, just in case, walking into the barber, the saloon, playing with an old dusty cash register, a cane that leans against the bar – “Cas look, I’m a real gentleman.” 

Cas joins him and pushes a finger into one of the buttons of the cash register, frowns when it gets stuck.

He keeps walking, looking out for clues. Cas trails after him silently, inspecting the little old houses with the utmost curiosity, sometimes stopping to look at something with special scrutiny. Dean is astonished by how Cas can show so much wonder for something he’s been a part of for millennia. There’s an angel at his side, sliding his fingers over dust covered tacky antiques like a child exploring the world. Dean hides his smile.

As fun as exploring an old ghost town is, Dean insists on leaving as soon as possible. There’s work to be done and he wants to find out whose spirits torments these other souls and burn them. On the way out, the woman behind the counter wishes them farewell with a big grin and the same cheery voice as before. Dean hopes that he doesn’t have to burn this place down.   

By now he’s freezing and all too happy to be back in the car. Conversation has dwindled, replaced by Robert Johnson’s voice lowly filling the car   _I went to the crossroad, fell down on my knees, asked the Lord above "have mercy, now save poor Bob, if you please”._ Cas’ has become silent, staring out the window with a thoughtful expression and Dean doesn’t feel like disturbing him. He stops at the local diner to get greasy fast food (once again paid with a fake credit card that he fears will be blocked soon) for the both of them, not knowing if Cas even wants it. It’s the sentiment that counts, he figures.

It turns out he doesn’t. Like the first time, the whole affair is quite hilarious. It goes like this: Dean drives them back to their motel. Inside their room he hangs his jacket over a chair, followed by himself sitting in aforementioned chair. Cas sits opposite of him, a bit awkward, totally unhuman.

“Dude, relax,” Dean says. Cas gives him the squinty eyes and shifts. A little.

Dean unpacks the brown paper bag, unpacks the burgers, the fries and pushes them into the middle of the table.

“Now, my feathery friend. I’ve got two options: cheeseburger, extra bacon and cheeseburger extra bacon,” Dean grins.

“This isn’t an option.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Duh. I want you to taste these.”

“If it makes you happy.”

He does. After unwrapping his food as if it’s something suspicious, highly contagious. Dean is already halfway to losing his shit. Cas sniffs it. Sniffs it like it’s something poisoned. Then starts eating with careful precision. It’s a good thing Dean’s mouth is empty, because the journey of Cas’ facial expressions while he sniffs, licks and finally bites into his burgers and fries is absolutely priceless. He looks like he’s being submitted to the worst torture imaginable and Dean knows a little about that after all.  

“Dean, why are you laughing? What is it? Answer me. I’ll have you know that I’m still an Angel of the Lord. _Dean_.”

After dinner Dean starts browsing the net, gathering information. He leaves Cas to his own devices. The guy ends up sitting behind Dean, studying what he’s doing, asking questions constantly. Dean tries to be annoyed but he has to admit to himself that he likes the company. Plus, Cas has to learn this stuff anyhow.  

It turns out that the Black Hills have more violent history than Dean first suspected and he feels a little bit bad about glorify something which had unfairly led to the genocide of Native Americans. He understands then, what Cas meant. Finding information about Four Mile is tricky. There is little on the internet and the little there is, doesn’t help to find out whose spirit is haunting the grounds.

At some point Dean leans back in his chair, let’s his bone crack, his muscles stretching after sitting leaned over the laptop for so long. Cas, at this point, is channel surfing with rapt fascination, soaking up every programme, no matter the quality, like a sponge. They would have to change that, he thinks, but not today.

Groaning, Dean shuts the laptop, catching Cas’ attention. Maybe deliberately. The sudden focus of those inhuman eyes startles him, and they’re caught in a game of chicken, staring at each other, which Dean knows he will lose. Because he’s a coward and the strange bond he feels with Cas is scaring the shit out of him.  

Blushing and trying to hide it by taking stock of the things littering the table, Dean eventually coughs and disappears into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Eyes follow him all the way, until he closes the door. Castiel’s attention drifts back to the TV.

*

Dean’s best bet the next morning is the town archive. Custer is a small town, surrounded by wilderness. There aren’t that many places for Dean and Cas to gather information and it’s not like Dean can salt-n-burn the whole fucking graveyard, if the bastard is even buried there. Somehow Dean doubts it. Cas said that the spirit was bound to the place. As he parks in front of the building that serves as the courthouse, archives and probably community centre, Dean muses that the human remains could be somewhere in Four Miles. He turns to Cas.

“We should check out the ghost town again, after nightfall. If the archive doesn’t lead us in that direction anyway.”

Cas raises an eyebrow.

“Why?” he asks sceptically.  

For some reason the question, combined with Cas’ tone of voice, irk him and he snaps, “You wanted to do this my way, stop questioning me then.”

Dean can see that Cas wants to retort. Not in the mood to be judged by the angel, he dodges his judgement by exiting the car and slamming the door. Cas hurries to follow, shooting Dean an annoyed look. He ignores it. It was Castiel who wanted to do this the Dean-Way. And now doesn’t trust him to do the job.  

They spend the day indoors, getting in easily with Dean’s fake journalist badge and a charming smile (“He’s new, I’m showing him the ropes”), reading lists and letters and reports and newspaper articles and dissertations and anything that the archive has to offer, in mutual silence. Sometimes, when Dean’s concentration wavers, he steals glances at Cas; watches the way his hands hold onto yellowed paper delicately, the way his eyes move rapidly from right to left, how his lips sometimes move. During these moments he is reminded how close they sit together, even from across each other. Even more so when their knees bump or when Dean stretches his leg and they get caught between Cas’.

Dean is not an idiot. He knows Castiel is easy on the eyes. And he may be in denial about a lot of things, but he knows about his own desires. He also knows that this body is not Castiel’s, that some poor bastard is currently in there with him and that fact makes him avert his eyes back to his work. It would help if Cas would be more of an asshole, if he hadn’t saved Dean’s life. But this was the crux of all things – underneath his quirky and outlandish personality, underneath his soldier exterior lay someone who wanted to do good. And Dean knew all about masks and expectations and being someone else for your own sake. And _this_ made all the difference.

“Dean, I think I found something. Look.”

Cas hands him an old newspaper article, sepia coloured and in bad shape. The picture, next to the text, itself is clear enough for Dean to make out an elderly, bearded man in the typical attire of someone rich from 200 years ago and heavily leaning on a cane. William H. Brown it says underneath. To his right and left he’s flanked, by what Dean thinks, is probably his family - wife and daughter, Emily and Anna Brown. Leaning over the photo, turning it towards the light, he can recognize the miserable looks on their faces. They’re awfully familiar. Biting the inside of his cheek, he hands the paper back to Cas, who starts reading, stating aloud, “He was the last mayor of Four Miles, a veteran that was stationed there with his family after the war, not much else on him. Hmm, it seems that after his sudden death people left, no reason given. Although some believe it was ‘due to the slowly advancing end of the _American West_ , mostly notable by the nearby _Wounded Knee Massacre_ ’.” His eyes travel up to meet Dean’s.

“It wasn’t. From what it felt like, something else must have happened.”

Looking back at the article in his hands, Dean nods and says, “I think you’re right. And I guess he’s the reason for it. Any hints where he was buried?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve got a hunch,” he says and trails off thoughtfully, eyes still glued to the photo. Unconsciously  he knows that a hunch isn’t enough, but Cas doesn’t say anything else and Dean is tired of sitting around.  

“Let’s check out the cemetery, first, just to be sure.”  

They leave to do that. Dean had the slight hope that this would be easier than he expected and that the motherfucker would be buried there. He isn’t. Dean’s not surprised by it, yet can’t help but being disappointed as they drive back to the motel, awaiting the securing shadow of night.

Awaiting sundown, Dean has the brilliant idea of teaching Texas hold ‘Em to Cas. Just one of many things he’d have to learn to make a living. They are crammed against the small table in their room, Dean shuffling cards and eventually dealing one card to Cas, burning one, dealing one to himself, burning one and repeat and settling the rest of the pile to one end of the table. Cas is a keen student, watching intently, listening to instructions with a nod. Turns out he’s a fast learner, too.

Playing against Cas, Dean realises how human the angel actually is, how often Dean is able to read his facial expressions, until he isn’t. It poses a litany of questions.

“You’re really not like the other angels, are you?” he says, before he knows what he’s doing. It’s nearly casual with the way he’s studying his cards for a second longer.  

Cas poker face immediately falls away, morphing into shock.

He seems to compose himself, before saying, “Excuse me?”

Dean must have struck a chord. It gives him the courage to move forward, to press his buttons. 

“You heard me, Cas,” he looks at him, pinning him with his gaze from across the table, “You didn’t rescue me because God commanded it so. You did it. _You wanted it_. You disobeyed heaven because you’d _chosen_ to safe me.”

Cas has become stock still, a pillar of stoicism, rooted in fear. Dean is on the verge of discovering something, he can feel it, nearly tangible in the silence that Cas emits. 

“C’mon, Cas, tell me there are other angels who -,” Dean stops, a conclusion occurring to him, and near whispers his next words frantically, “have _free will_.” He waits for Cas to say something, to rebuke him.

“There aren’t, am I right?”

The silence between them is stifling. Cas’ nostrils are flaring.

“Why, Cas? Why now? Why me? Why you? And what are you so goddamn afraid of?”

With a startling noise, Cas is suddenly standing, his chair crashing to the floor with a deafening sound, and rushing out of the room, while Dean can only stare at the place he’s occupied a few seconds ago. He is slow to move after that outburst, surprised by the intensity of Cas’ feelings. Sheepishly he sets the chair straight and follows Cas outside. The angel sits perched on the Impala’s hood with his hands in his pockets and a bent head. Dean joins him and musters his profile for a second. A part of him wants to apologise. He refrains from doing so, knowing that he had a point.

Cas eventually speaks, sounding utterly defeated, “I don’t know why I’m different, Dean. Why I’m able to _feel_. To doubt. But I do. Shouldn’t it be enough?”

Imploringly he stares at Dean, practically begging him to let it drop. Dean slowly turns his head up to the sky, staring at the stars for a few seconds, silently asking heaven up above. No answer. He supposes it is enough - for the time being.

Without a word he walks around to the driver’s side and opens the door.

“Let’s get this show on the road. There’s a spirit that needs to be wasted.”

Castiel recognizes it for the white flag that it is and takes his seat on the passenger’s side.

On the drive to Four Mile Dean lets him in on his theory which leads to an impromptu plan. This late in the night the road to Four Mile is quiet and empty and so is the little town as they pull up.

As Dean exists the car, he has to pull his jacket tighter around him. It isn’t snowing but the cold is unrelentless, wrapping around his bones like an invisible blanket. Cas closes the door, looking into the direction of the entrance, totally unaffected by the temperatures.

Before Dean can make a quip about it, Cas strides confidently towards the building. Dean half-shouts after him but Cas doesn’t turn around. Cursing, he opens the trunk to get out the salt, gasoline, matches, gun and a flashlight. When Dean closes it, Cas is nowhere to be seen. Fucking angel and his stupid impatience. Dean has heard of enough hunters dying of recklessness or because they’d taken a job too big for one person. With these stories in the back of his mind, he hurries to catch up with Cas.

The entrance door is unlocked and with his flashlight held high, Dean walks through the empty building, quietly calling out to Cas. It’s silent, except for the wind rushing through the open cracks. Receiving no answer, he carefully creeps forward to the next set of doors. Stretching his hand out until his fingers find the coarse wood, he finds them unlocked as well, and pushes. They open to the big plaza with its many crooked buildings without a sound.

Where Dean had walked in a crouch before, he stands tall now. There is just enough light from the moon for Dean to see the angel standing in the middle of the plaza, unmoving. His arms hang by his sides, his back straightened, his gaze focused on something Dean can’t see. He walks, the sand unusual loud under his steps, in the dead of night. Cas doesn’t care. Doesn’t care when Dean calls out in a hissing voice, “Cas!” He doesn’t move.

Then, as Dean nearly stands next to Cas, a translucent apparition appears on the other end of the plaza. Slowly it manifests, a dark swirling shadow turning into a man. Into William H. Brown. His clothes are tethered, his face ashen and gaunt underneath the fringy beard, underneath bushy eyebrows two dark black pools. They watch as he slowly approaches, his face turning into stormy anger, an inhuman, horrendous grimace. A cloud moves across the moon. Darkness falls over the plaza.

An arm stretches across his chest. Confused, as if Dean doesn’t know who it belongs to, he follows it with his eyes until they reach Cas’ face – the face of a soldier ready to fight. Just as they’ve planned.

“Go, Dean,” Cas growls.          

Dean does, just as they’ve planned. He runs to the old saloon, flashlight showing him the way. The ghost of a man, dressed in a cowboy hat, vest and all that jazz appears in front of him just as the approaches the doors, a gun in hand. If adrenaline wasn’t pumping through his veins in fear, it probably would have been in excitement, to see the ghost of someone looking like an outlaw. As it is, he’s blocking Dean’s way.

He lifts his gun, loaded with rock salt, and fires. The ghost disappears in smoke before he can attack Dean.  

“Sorry, buddy,” he says as he walks through the smoke to open the doors to the saloon, breathing in dust and sand.

His flashlights beams over the furniture, searching for the object of the haunting. Just as he sees and approaches it with quick steps, something grabs him by the collar and hauls him across the room. His back impacts with the wall, pain quickly racing along his spine, radiating into the whole of his back. Groaning he sits up, wondering when he hit the floor. As he raises his head and himself from the floor, he can see the same bastard as before, glowering before him in the light of the flashlight, cutting across the room.

“You’re a persistent motherfucker, huh?” he mumbles.  

As if the ghost has heard him, he suddenly reappears before him. Dean has the sound mind to quickly grab his gun. The ghost hauls him upwards by his throat, cutting off his air supply. Despite knowing that it’s fruitless, he kicks at his assailant, pure survival instinct taking over for a second until he fires his gun a second time, falling to the ground, landing on his feet with a grunt. He coughs, finding his composure. Picking up his flashlight he walks over to the cane, more careful this time, his head turning this way and that. But there is no ghost this time.

From outside Cas is shouting, “Dean, hurry!”

Dean curses, takes the last step, grabs the cane and hurries outside. In the moonlight breaking through the clouds, Cas, refusing to use his powers, lies on the ground, surrounded by ghosts. Some of them (among them Emily and Anna) seem to try to help him, grabbing Brown, while he’s strangling Cas, who’s trying to pry away his arms. Brown’s too strong, shaking them off like flies, growling, his face contorted even more. Ghost and angel stare at each other in utmost contempt.

Dean throws the cane on the ground, pulls out the gasoline and salts and starts to sprinkle it, hoping that it’ll work, that he wasn’t wrong about that. He doesn’t know if Cas can die or what’ll happen if he goes back to heaven. With shaky hands he finally lights the matches and drops them onto the cane. It bursts into flames in a second, nearly scorching Dean’s hairs; has him protectively shielding his face with his arm.

Brown, who must feel his powers dwindling, lets up from Cas, his head swivelling to Dean. Clinging to his powers, to life itself, he flings himself towards Dean. For a second he thinks that bastard is going to make it, is going to reach him, but then he bursts into flame with one last loud, echoing howl that gets lost in the night sky.

Silence descends. The wind coldly hums across the plaza.  

Cas stands up slowly. All the other ghosts are frozen in motion. The fire slowly recedes. And as it does, so do the trapped souls, who close their eyes in peace and fade into nothing. 

 

*

Cas turns to him just as he throws his duffel into the trunk, wincing at the slight pain that shoots through his injured shoulder.

“Now that we “took care of business” I guess it’s time to visit that monument you wanted to see?”

Not sure if he’s heard right, he slams the trunk close. Blinking, Dean looks at him, his face blank of any emotion for a second before a smile graces his lips, barely visible. Nevertheless, Cas notices and watches the slight upturn.

“You serious?”

It is Cas’ turn to blink in confusion.

“ _You_ wanted to, didn’t you? If I remember correctly.”

Unable to hold back his excitement any longer, Dean lets the grin break free on his face and throws his arm around Cas’ shoulders to stir him towards the door, secretly enjoying how close they were, how Cas remembered about Dean’s silly idea and is ready to join him. No one had ever cared for what Dean wanted. If he wanted something, he usually had to fight for it, tooth and nails.

Giddiness takes over as they get seated in the car and Dean starts the engine, knowing he is about to see Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse because he wants to and no one is there to tell him otherwise. The grin won’t vanish as he drives up the mountain, Foreigner blaring _It feels like the first time feels like the very first time_ , following the winding road that is getting them closer and closer to their destination. And despite the wintriness and the snow, the Monuments are remarkable, each on its own.

Dean’s glad for the old polaroid camera that’s usually somewhere buried in the trunk because he has no use for it. He uses it that day. He uses it to take a photo of him and Cas, smiling a bit awkwardly, standing in front of Mount Rushmore. Cas doesn’t understand at first, confused at Dean’s need to capture this moment on film. The following conversation is held in hushed, urgent whispers as not to alarm the tourists around them. Dean smiling tightly at the confused stares they get.

As light slowly starts to turn into dark, Dean decides it’s time to have dinner and drive back.

It’s one of the best days in Dean’s life.

They arrive back at Bobby’s in the middle of the night being greeted with open arms, a hug and some booze; Castiel a bit wiser, Dean a bit happier.

It doesn’t last.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four Miles, Custer & of course Mount Rushmore as well as Crazy Horse exist and are some lovely places. Everything else is fiction.  
> Thanks for reading. If you find any mistakes, please feel free to point them out.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a million for your kudos and your patience!!!   
> Warning: This chapter contains PTSD and its effects.

**Chapter 3**

**John 8:32**

_And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free._

Winter 

Bobby tells them that he has a lead, a weather omen on the east coast – unnatural thunderstorms in North Carolina for that time of year. It’s the only real lead they have and it’s better than nothing, Dean figures. Cas isn’t impressed. But he rarely is. Dean wonders what it’ll take to please him and stops his thoughts right there.

He agrees to check it out anyway, since he knows just as well as Dean that they have no other choice but to follow whatever clues turn up. They pack their bags or rather Dean washes some of his clothes and throws the bag back into the car, while he forces Cas to pack a bag of weapons.

In the light of morning, leaving Bobby and the safety of his home behind, the discussion of Cas being able to shoot comes up. He can’t. So Dean pulls the car over on a dirt road, behind a small clearance, somewhere in Iowa. He sprays a small red target on one of the trees and comes to stand next to Cas, who is inspecting the gun Dean gave him with curiosity.

“You _do_ know what this is, right?”

Cas looks up; annoyance written all over his face.

“I’m an angel, not an idiot, Dean.”

“If you know so much, fire away, hot shot,” Dean smirks, pleased with his own joke.

Just as Dean predicted, from Cas’ experience and his stance, the first shot misses the target. About to say something, Dean turns, but Cas beats him to it.  

“Don’t you dare say anything.”

He takes it as the challenge that it is. Instead of saying something about poor posture and training, Dean circles Cas until he is behind him. Carefully, Dean places his hands on Cas’ shoulders, his arms and finally his hips to corrects his stance. He tries not to think about their proximity, tries to ignore the warmth radiating from Cas’ stolen body and how his heart skips a beat. It’s ridiculous.

While his hand slips from the others hip, he says, “Try again.” It comes out softer and fonder than intended.

Cas glances at him from the corner of his eye, but thankfully doesn’t say anything, then fires and hits the tree. Not anywhere near the target, but at least he hits.

“There you go,” Dean grins. “Who taught you how to shoot like that?”

Cas shoots and shoots and shoots again until he hits the target at least once, at which point Dean is happy enough to tell him so, as well as coerce him into the car. After all, Dean wants to cover some miles before it gets dark.  

As they are about to cross the border to North Carolina the next day, Dean deep in thought, deep enough to let his body do the driving on its own, completely automatized and in tune with his car, he thinks about their destination and the implications. He ignores the churning in his stomach, which naturally happens when he thinks about Azazel.

“Demons have a fucked up sense of humour,” he murmurs, more to himself than Cas, who is reading one of Dean’s old Vonnegut novels he found at Bobby’s. Nonetheless he perks up at the words spoken into the nothingness between them and answer with a nondescript, “Hm?” Dean can choose to repeat himself or not.

He does, “I said, “Demons have a fucked up sense of humour”.”

Intrigued, Cas closes his book, marking his page with a finger and turns to Dean.

“Then you’ve never met an angel,” he states deadpan.

For a moment Dean is shocked into silence by the sheer stupidity of the joke. He slowly turns around to face Cas, only to be met with the most innocence expression he has ever seen. On anyone.

“Eyes on the road, Dean.”

Dean turns back around.

“Cas – For your own good, I’m gonna forget that godawful joke you’ve just made.”

“Well, that certainly supports my claim,” he retorts, sounding miffed. Honest to god _miffed_ about being critiqued for his jokes.

“You’re a freaking drama queen, you know that?” Dean says lightly, trying to make a harmless statement. In retrospect he should’ve just shut up as Cas fires his next verbal shot. 

“Takes one to know one, right?”

At least he’s good at those. Once again Dean turns around to look at him, this time way more confused and amused than before.

“What the hell, dude?”

“Wrong department. Eyes on the road, Dean!”

“Don’t yell at me!”

“Then how about you don’t get us both killed!”

Suddenly it’s his father’s voice ringing in his head, _How about you don’t get us both killed, you damn idiot?!_

Instead of letting this escalate any further or actually being responsible for any accidents, Dean sways the car to the side of the road and hurriedly makes an escape from the confined space.

He doesn’t see the concern flickering across Cas’ face, but he can hear the softness in his voice as he calls Dean’s name. Ignoring it, he closes the door and leans against it, taking a few deep breaths, closing his eyes to collect himself.

Cas waits all of two seconds before he’s out of the car himself, staring a hole into Dean’s back.

“I’m sorry I –”

“Cas, shut up,” Dean pleads, adding, “Please,” as an afterthought.

It’s not even Cas’ fault. It was his because he didn’t watch the road, because for a second he forgot to cover his dad’s back, because because because. Because his life consists of mistakes and trying to make up for them and making an even bigger mistake. Because he is a coward and an idiot and a drama queen who can’t keep his shit together and depends on other people, who’s attracted to the first person to show him even the smallest shred of kindness. He takes one last deep breath through his nose and gets in the car. Cas is already back in his seat, mustering him. Probably wondering how to help Dean and cure this injury. Except he can’t.

“Dean –”

Dean holds up his hand to halt Cas.

“Forget it.”

He starts the car.

“What I wanted to say is uhm,” picking up the prior conversation as if nothing has happened _Why aren’t you apologising, you stupid proud idiot?!_ “that fucking shit up on an island that is already notorious for, you know, demonic activities is fucked up.”

He ignores the voice in his head screaming at him to man up and apologise. From the corner of his eye he can see Cas still mustering him. He doesn’t even want to know what Cas is thinking about his behaviour. But as always he lets it slide. It makes him wonder how long he’s going to get away with it.

“What happened in Roanoke wasn’t demonic intervention. The Croatoan tripe saw that the newly arrived settlers were leaderless, slowly starving and decided to help them. They accepted, gratefully. The British claimed that the tribe had killed the settlers in cold blood and branded them as devils instead of telling the truth. They never even tried. Pride of men was the reason for the spreading of this lie.”

Hearing, understanding, that Cas obviously knows the truth about a lot of the history of mankind overwhelms Dean for a moment. He could ask him anything and Cas would be able to tell him all about it. Mentally he starts making a list. It also makes him wonder if Cas is trying to teach him a veiled lesson here.

Cas voice disrupts his train of thought, “I envy you for your dichotomy. Kindness and cruelty go hand in hand and in every human there is both.”

Hearing Cas sounding so forlorn, Dean can’t help but console him, fiercely declaring, “Then you must be one of us.”

He doesn’t dare turn around to look at Cas. The cassette tape has been quiet for way too long, now that Dean has to focus on the silence. He inserts a Metallica one.

Quietly, Cas replies before the music can start, “Thank you, Dean” and goes back to reading.

They arrive early enough for Dean to find a motel, get some lunch and make sure Cas gets some shooting practice.

*

Turns out Roanoke is a flop. Turns out a witch is at work. Dean hates witches.

*

At least they get a potential clue, which leads them to a coven located in Virginia that seems likely to have connections to Azazel. It’s a knotted strings of what-ifs and maybes and Bobby tells them the same when Dean calls him on the way to Chesapeake, but once again it’s the only lead they have, which Bobby also admits with some grumbling.

 

Spring 

Dean has been to every state at different seasons at least twice in his lifetime. He admired leaves turning from green to brown to white; has felt the brutal sun of the mid-west, asphalt so hot it melts; seen the vast space of deserts and the air swinging with heat; has sweated in the subtropical humidity of the south, insects constantly buzzing.

Seasons mean nothing. They can mean everything – the passing of time, the beauty of a country, the brutality of nature, the influence of humankind (on humankind; like girls tanning on the beach; like people coming out of hiding after the long winter to enjoy rebirth), Sam’s birthday. Dean himself turned 25 without really caring much for it. Bobby called to wish him a Happy Birthday and the promise of a present the next time they’re around. He didn’t tell Cas and Cas never figured it out. Or maybe he knew but didn’t care. Dean didn’t mind either way. His birthday has never been a day to celebrate.

But January turns to February and February to March and March to April and April to May and it happens fast and it happens while Dean and Cas are driving all over the country chasing clues and dead ends to find anything, something and suddenly it’s May and Dean didn’t realise until he has to stop for gas and sees the newspaper telling him with it’s silent black-and-white (and didn’t he wish the world would function this way) letters that it’s the 2nd of May. It doesn’t tell him it’s Sam’s birthday, but it might as well mock him with the way it sits there so innocently while Dean stares and stares and stares.

It’s the 2nd of May and Dean, for the first time in months, thinks about his family. In this highway gas station on the way to Mississippi his worlds screeches to a halt as noise and sounds is swallowed by doubts. Where is his dad? And why haven’t Bobby and he heard anything from him in months? Is Sam safe? Is he doing the right thing? Should he call him? As in a daze he pays for the gas and walks back outside to find Cas exactly where he’d left him. Reading Dick’s _Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?_.

Strange how he stands in front of the car and pulls out his phone without him noticing until Cas addresses him from a rolled down window.  

“Did you forget something or is there another reason we’re not driving?”

Throat too tight, Dean doesn’t answer.

“Dean? Are you alright?”  

The desperate tone in Cas’ voice makes him look up into his worried face, feeling a frown appearing on his own.  

“It’s Sam’s birthday today,” he finally says, licking his lips, thumb hovering over the buttons. He still knows Sam’s number by heart.

“I –” he chokes on his own words, unable to express the litany of emotions stuck in his throat.

He gets in the car instead. Frustrated he throws his phone in the back, swallows harshly and blinks away the tears. Cas doesn’t say anything as he accelerates too fast.  

 

Dean is not a big fan of Mississippi. He supposes the landscape with its green forests can be beautiful, but the weather is horrible. Especially if you have to investigate the swampy area that poses as the Pascagoula river because someone supposedly saw a mermaid. Dean is basically walking around naked all the time – meaning he’s only in a thin cotton shirt and has even traded his jeans and boots for knee length shorts and some sneakers. The first time he’d donned this outfit Cas raised an eyebrow to which Dean had replied, “Not a word, feathers. To anyone. Ever. Or I’ll pluck you and roast you like a turkey.”

Cas had rolled his eyes and walked away, muttering something under his breath that Dean couldn’t hear, but somehow knew was mean and caught up with him to – but this is not important.

More importantly, Dean and Cas are currently investigating the rumour of the mermaid instead of following the clue they had been given because as it turned out the clue was horseshit. What they found instead was a bunch of people being scared to go near the water because the last couple who thought it was romantic to hike along it ( _hike, yeah right_ ) disappeared.

Right now the two of them sit where the couple went missing. It is dark and Dean can only hear the humming of insects; the smell of decaying wood and grass heavy in the air. Another mosquito settles on Dean’s arm and is swatted mercilessly, while the one on Castiel’s arm is gently released back into nature, with a disapproving side glance from Dean.

“You shouldn’t let them live. They’re a menace,” he says.

“Thank God this isn’t how you regard every creature in existence – oh, wait.”

“You’re still alive, ain’t ya?”

“Do I have to remind you-”

“That you’re an Angel of the Lord. No thanks. Shit, did you see that?”

Scrambling from his position on a fallen log, Dean ducks quickly behind the same log, followed by Cas. Both of them stare into the stinking darkness. The water ripples again, gently sloshing against the shore. Dean can feel his pulse quickening, the sweat trickling down his neck. The water becomes stormier. The same instant they can hear the gentle humming of a melodic voice, sounding like a lullaby, which mixes perfectly with the sound of the streaming river.

For a second Dean thinks the voice is nearing them, his body getting ready to defend him. It disappears down the river instead. The mermaid hasn’t seen them. He catches Cas’ eyes, nods in the direction the monster is going. Cas nods back. Slowly they follow the voice along the riverbed, careful not to draw attention to them. Dean is glad that Cas can see the way in the dark. It doesn’t take long until the voice stops moving and so does Cas.

The moonlight illuminates the river, and a little island in the middle of the river, just enough for Dean to see the head of the creature emerging from the water: dark wet hair followed by copper skin and green shiny scales turning into two legs that advance onto the island and disappear into the thicket of gnarled trees and bushes. The singing has stopped. Both of them puff relieved.

Dean breaks the silence, “Well, they weren’t lying. Can’t believe it. Fucking mermaids.” He shakes his head. “Shame she’s a _blood thirsty_ monster,” he jokes, his intonation betraying the innuendo. It earns him a reprimanding look from Cas.

“People have died, Dean,” he hisses and turns around to walk back to the car. Dean, rolling his eyes, turns around to follow.     

For tonight the hunt is over.

*

Dean dreams of blood that suffocates him from the inside out. It bubbles out from his punctured lungs and fills his mouth, the stench of metal heavy in his nose, while a strangely melodic laughter surrounds him. Waking up with a scream lodged in his throat he runs to the bathroom and barely manages it before his dinner greets the ceramic bowl in a colour that reminds him of the river. It’s not the first time this has happened and Dean knows it won’t be the last. Afterwards Castiel sits next to him on the bed with one hand stroking through his hair, making sure Dean can fall asleep again. It’s also not the first time this has happened and Dean knows ( _hopes_ ) it won’t be the last.   

He tries to forget about it the next day, just as he always does. Locking away the shit that has him fucked up has been working so far, has been a functioning coping mechanism for years now. Deep down he knows that every problem he tries to bury accumulates until the mountain is too big to contain. Likewise, he knows he’ll die before the eventual earthquake will shake the foundation of bullshit to its core to expose the ugly truth.

There is a mermaid to kill and a demon to find and whatever Cas’ objective is.

For now they prepare to talk to one of the only surviving victims, according to the sheriff. An elderly woman that was a young girl when she witnessed her friend being taken.

“She wasn’t my _friend_ , as I’ve tried tellin’ everyone who asks. Don’ know why folks don’ wanna understand that she was my girlfriend. That – that thing took her, came right out of the water and started singin’. Rose – she – she didn’t even turn around when I yelled for her, jus’ walked straight into the river, wouldn’t budge no matter how hard I tried to yank her back. Worst night of my life. I saw my girlfriend walk into the river and disappear and people thought I did it. Even when the police released me because I lacked motive, they believed it,” the old dark-skinned woman, named Susie, with short hair and a short temper tells them. Dean doesn’t know if he feels overwhelmed by her anger or the heat generated by three people sitting in a tiny living room.

“Why didn’t you move?” Cas asks. It’s too personal and doesn’t help the case. Dean sighs internally.  

“And where to, boy? And with what money? I was a teenager. Was lucky my parents didn’t kick me out. God bless their souls,” she says and crosses herself. “After a while, folk simply forgot.”  

Dean clears his throat, catching her attention.

“What my partner means is: It was brave of you. Did you ever see this monster again?”

“Hell no! I ain’t went near the water ever since. Everyone thought I was crazy, didn’t wanna hear it, for a time I thought so myself. But I kept dreaming about this night. I can still describe the way it looked,” Susie whispers and takes a drag of her cigarette, blowing the smoke right into Dean’s face.  

“What did she –it – look like?”

“Beautiful. And deadly. It was naked, looked like a woman. Long dark hair covered its torso, but I can still remember the way it grinned at me. Had a row full of sharp teeth, I tell ya. And when it disappeared with Rosie in its arms, it had a tail full of green scales.”

“Sounds like you saw a mermaid.”

The old woman is quiet for a second, watching him through the smoke.

“People’ve spotted her since the early days, ‘ve heard her, too. Just like I did. Most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard. All the young ones are forgetting, like I did. That’s why she’s coming back.”

Shadows fall over the room, the sun covered by the shifting clouds. Susie takes another drag of her cigarette.

Smoke covering her, Susie says, “She demands worship. This is her revenge for forgetting her.”

“Who worshiped her? How?”

“Old folks. From before the war. After that, their descendants. They used to bring her gifts, sing for her. Now everyone who knew is dead or moved to the big cities. Nobody believes anymore. Easier to say old hag Susie is crazy. And look where it got ‘em.”

“I assure you, you’re anything but crazy. This has been very helpful,” Cas says.

Her face falls and for a moment she looks younger.

“Thank you, dearie.”

They thank her and leave her be in her small white cottage at the edge of town.

Over lunch, the both of them come to the same conclusion: that what they witnessed the night before must have been the mermaid and her hide out. They decide to set out this very night and end it, no gifts, no singing.

The hide out (resembling a crude temple) is a conclave of trees, hidden and secured and full of rotting wood, human bones and the occasional jewellery, circled by water no one dares be near or enter unless you’re a hunter and a rogue angel trying to kill a homicidal mermaid. Armed with earplugs, they’re hidden in the bushes as the sun is slowly setting. The last rays of sunshine heat the river and the sweltering humidity is barely bearable. For the hundredth time, Dean has to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Jealous of Cas’ composure, he watches him from the corner of his eyes, being perfectly normal in his shirt and trench coat. Not one glistening pearl.

Tearing his eyes away he asks, “You’re sure this is going to work?”

“Yes, Dean. Once they’re out of the water, they’re practically defenceless. Now be quiet,” he hisses.

He desperately hopes so, not in the mood to die in fucking Mississippi.

Out of spite he murmurs, “Alright then.”

It feels like they’re hiding for ages and Dean nearly falls asleep every hour, only woken up by an annoyed Cas, who pokes him in the ribs non too gently every time. By the time the mermaid is dead, he probably has bruises. The numbers on Dean’s watch creep towards midnight when he faintly hears water sloshing, a disturbance in the normal sounds and natural background around them. The look on Castiel’s face indicates, he too, has heard it.

Dean’s trying to see something, peering into the darkness, but it’s impossible. He has to rely on Cas and wait for his cue. A peculiar thing. A few months ago Cas was a stranger, still is to some degree, and yet he’s already trusting him with his life. His father would be furious if he’d knew. He has no more time dwelling on it, though. Without a word, Cas jumps out of their hiding. Too slow to follow his sudden movement, Dean only hears a high-pitched scream and the dull sound of something hitting the ground, the sounds of a struggle.

He curses, “Cas, goddamnit!” and going against their plan, charges out of the bush, gun drawn, torchlight held tightly underneath to see the skirmish on the ground: Mermaid being pinned down; her body glistening, wet hair fawning over white bones and olive skin covered in scales, reflecting the light in greens and blues, fighting against Cas with a mouth full of teeth belonging to a predator. So much for being defenceless.

Something else catches the light of the torch. While Cas struggles to keep her pinned, he’s produced an object looking like a dagger. The mermaid, seeing the glinting pointy end, screeches and manages to forcefully push Cas away from her and onto the ground, staggering to her feet. It’s then she notices Dean. Her eyes narrow. A small smile appears on her face. Her mouth opens while she slowly creeps backwards.

Dean tries to follow, but a sluggishness overwhelms him. The bitch is doing something to him.

“Cas?” he asks, panic creeping into his voice.

The smile on the mermaids face disappears. A frantic urgency overcomes her. She turns and runs towards the water, her voice fading into silence. Immediately Deans legs work on their own and start running after her, Cas at his heels. Before she can reach the river, he tackles her to the ground, his machete bouncing at his side and reminding him what he was supposed to do. Unfortunately, she is strong and it takes all of Dean’s power to just keep her from sliding out from underneath him. Just as he thinks he’s losing his grip on her, grunting with the effort of keeping her on her belly, head pushed down to keep the teeth away from him, Cas brushes past him, taking the blade.

In the darkness he doesn’t see her blood splattering and spilling on the ground, but he feels some warm droplets hitting his face, her body going limp beneath him. Heart beating fast, he sits back on his haunches and takes a few deep breaths while Cas collects her head. For some reason his hand won’t stop shaking.

“What a shame. This could’ve been much more pleasurable under the right circumstances. Always thought mermaids were kinda sexy,” he jokes, trying to reassure himself. Of what, he doesn’t know.

Cas isn’t impressed. As always, he sees right through him and just levels him with a glare.

Angrily he says, “How about you stop making stupid, tasteless jokes and stick to the plan next time?”

And yeah, ok, Castiel has a point.

“Help me with the body.”   

Great, now Dean feels like a total ass.           

*

There is a dead priest and blood-crying angels in a catholic church in Texas. It’s the first time Cas shows signs of approval and genuine belief that this could be a real lead instead of another wild goose chase born out of despair.

Dean is just glad to leave fucking Mississippi with its swamps, its sweltering suffocating humidity. They exchange the humidity for heat as the Impala rolls into Texas like the loyal friend she is while Lynard Skynyrd’s ‘Simple Man’ changes from the guitar solo to _Boy, don't you worry, you'll find yourself Follow your heart and nothing else And you can do this, oh baby, if you try All that I want for you, my son, is to be satisfied_ into the chorus, loudly accompanied by Dean. Water makes way for sand and long stretches of nothingness (and music) until a town or even a village appears like a fata morgana.

The church is located in a small town near the border to Oklahoma. The shocked deacon is the only person willing to talk to them and tells them that the town’s hard-core Christian citizens are still trembling from the strange occurrence. They’re convinced the devil is among them and Dean can’t fault them for thinking so. Even without the blood-crying angels, small setback communities like these aren’t exactly the nicest places to live in. God knows –or maybe not – what some of them hide in their closets.

 “Of course the idiot cleaned up the mess,” Dean growls as they walk back to the car, no disguises. Nobody here appreciates the FBI sniffing around, nobody believes in police justice when they have a gun at the ready. Something Dean can understand well, scarily so. Instead, they pretend to be concerned fellow Christians, preachers travelling the country. That they don’t wear the according clothes doesn’t seem to bother them much, they don’t trust them anyway. The deacon seems to be the exception. Or maybe it was just Castiel’s charm, the deacon sensing his divine origin.  

Cas stops walking. Turning around to Dean, his face scrunches up as if he’s smelled something foul and says, “Something is still wrong. Whatever caused the weeping statues isn’t gone.”

“Are your angel senses tingling again?” Dean smirks, anticipating Cas’ annoyed look and yep, there it is. He sobers up quickly enough, the smile vanishing from his face. He knows exactly what Cas means. Even for such a backward community, besides behaving secretive, they mostly behave strangely. There are squinty eyes following their every move, whispered words, the term ‘stranger’ thrown around like an insult, empty streets, an unnatural stillness. It’s uncomfortable, to say the least, when Dean tries to order his food in a friendly manner and has to fear someone has spit on it.

It’s early afternoon on the next day when they drive up to the church. Something has Cas acting nervous. They’ve been travelling together long enough by now for Dean to recognise his stiff posture and unusual silence as alertness. Dean shares the sentiment. He remembers chasing demonic omens across the country and its result and immediately stops that train of thought. He doesn’t need a fucking panic attack in the middle of the day, the nightmares are enough terror as it is.

As he parks the car, both of them sit quietly for a few seconds, gazing at the wooden structure, build in the middle of the desert, sand stretching in every direction except the one they came from. Small, compared to other churches Dean has seen. He turns to Cas, about to ask him if he’s ready and is confronted with him intensely staring at the doors. There’s a joke on the tip of this tongue.

He bites it and says, “Let’s go.”

The atmosphere outside the church is charged, like a storm brewing before lightning strikes, while the inside is heated up and stuffy. Dean doesn’t even want to imagine sitting here on a hot Sunday morning. There’s a secluded chapel to the right of the nave for whatever Saint and at the end of the nave a big cross displaying Jesus, framed by Maria kneeling at his feet and two angels to his left and right. All of them chiselled from white limestone. Dean and Cas come to stand right in front of them, inspecting them, but just as the deacon told them, there is nothing showing that blood once poured from their eyes or anything else indicating demonic activities besides the weird vibe this place has.

Latter should have been warning enough. The moment Dean steps closer to the statues to have a closer look, all hell breaks loose. Cas turns to him frantically, about to say something, but is knocked heavily into the wall, collapsing onto the floor,  while the doors fly open and an elderly man steps into the church.

“Hello Dean, nice to see you again.”

Dean’s instincts are going crazy, his inside swooping down as if on a rollercoaster, but it takes a second too long for him to connect the pieces.

“You don’t remember me? I’m hurt. We had so much fun together,” the man goes on, walking towards Dean.

Too late he realises, “Alastair.”

Dean draws his gun, the only option that comes to his mind. But of course it doesn’t work this way. He’s knocked into the wall, just as Cas was and pinned on the spot.

“I’m surprised the angel led you here,” the demon says as he comes closer, walking leisurely towards Dean, knowing he’s got all the time in the world. Even though he occupies a different vessel, it’s as if Dean is back in that cellar with his nasal voice taunting him. His heart speed accelerates. He can feel his face heating up, sweat on his back, the room is spinning. Fucking hell, he’s having a panic attack while this assholes looks at him like he’s his next snack.

Alastair comes to stand in front of him, looking up at Dean and letting his eyes swipe over him. One hand is buried in his jeans, while the other raises to touch Dean’s face and with his pointer finger gingerly gliding down the side of it. Utterly disgusted by the demon’s touch he tries to strain away but no avail. He’s trapped. Alastair grins. His next move isn’t gently – he grabs Dean’s face forcefully and catches his eyes.

“He went to all this trouble hiding you from the world. Only to bring you right into the lion’s den. My bosses will be delighted. Heaven’s most important asset,” he lets go of Dean and turns around to Cas, who has drawn his sword and is slowly advancing with a murderous look in his eyes, “and an angel who went rogue for it. I wonder what they’ll do to you. Once I send you back to heaven.”

Dean only understands the half of what the bastard is saying and it must show on his face. Because as Alastair glances back to Dean from the corner of his eyes, an ugly grin spreads across his face.

“Oh my, this is juicy. You didn’t tell him, did you, Castiel?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Dean growls, sick of this shit. Cas takes the opportunity, the small millisecond in which Alastair is focused on Dean, to literally jump into action, attacking the demon.

It doesn’t work. Sensing the thread, Alastair turns around and instead of Cas’ blade burying itself in his back, a loud metallic sound echoes as Alastair draws an angel blade himself. Dean wonders where he has gotten it from and Cas’ expression signals the same. Alastair must see it, too. He takes a step back and turns the blade in his hand, examining it with disinterest.

“Oh this? From one of my friends upstairs. They don’t like you meddling around, _Cas_. This is foretold. It’s _destiny_ as they say,” he taunts as he sidesteps another of Castiel’s attacks and tries to find an opening himself.

This deadly dance goes on for a bit, while Dean tries to fight against the invisible bonds keeping him on the wall. Dean can feel the muscles in his body hurting from the strain he’s putting them under, groaning and sweating, without result, while Cas is being pushed back. Alastair is parrying his every hit, adding enough punches to make Cas seriously struggle. Dean grits his teeth, angry and desperate. Then his eyes widen, as with a loud clanging noise Alastair disarms Cas, punches him square in his face, blood spurting from his nose and grabs him by the throat, raising him above the ground, his feet dangling, while Cas claws at his hands.

Dean hears himself scream, “Cas!” and sheer terror setting in, separating him from himself.

He hears Alastair’s voice, spoken through a wall of cotton clogging his ears, fighting and fighting, “You know, _Cas_? I can _ab-solute-ly_ understand why you tried to keep him for yourself. Real fighter, that one. Can’t wait to see his spirit broken. I was _so_ close last time. I wonder – will killing you do the job? Will he be desperate enough to say ‘yes’?”

With a wicked grin, he turns to Dean.

“Or should I call Azazel? He would be delighted to see this. He’s searching for Sam, you know? Big plans for the Winchester brothers.”

Seeing Dean’s shocked expression, he turns back around and whispers something Dean can’t hear. Then he raises his angel sword with the unoccupied hand and lets the tip slowly glide over Cas’ body until it reaches his heart. In the same slow speed, he pushed the tip into Cas.

Alastair chuckles as Dean’s furious “NO!” echoes within the church, covering Cas’ pained grunts. Blue light starts to erupt from his eyes and his mouth. He’s visibly struggling to keep his grace contained, fighting against the hold.

“Dean,” Cas rasps, barely audible, “Close your eyes.”

It takes Dean a moment to understand what Cas is saying and just as he realises what Cas has told him to do, the light within him explodes like a bomb. Even with his eyes closed, it’s nearly blinding. Whatever it was, it was enough to break Alastair’s concentration. Dean is released, falling to the ground, barely catching himself. He keeps his eyes closed a second longer, just to be sure, and opens them to see Cas kneeling on the floor. Alastair is still standing but the place where two eyes should be is charred black. Alastair is blinded and from the way he’s wobbling temporarily deaf. It’s now or never.

Adrenaline lets Dean focus on the glinting object beneath the rows of benches. Without thinking he rushes to the blade, picks it up and before Alastair can hurt Cas again, Dean stabs him, the blade sinking into his flesh like butter, piercing his throat. It isn’t until he starts gurgling that Dean realises what he’s done. He takes a step back. The sword glides free, still in his hand. Alastair tumbles to the ground, his body (not his, some poor bastards) alight, burning from the inside, a noise like pure electricity. 

Then silence.

Dean looks at the blade in his hand, looks at Cas who is watching him and for the first time in months, is directionless. Alastair’s words keep repeating in his head like a chaotic maelstrom. He catches Cas’ eyes, his face hardening. No time for regrets or angry talks right now.

“We’re getting out of here. Once we’re safe you better fucking tell me what the fuck this shit was about.”

Nostrils flaring, he pockets the knife and briskly walks towards Cas to help him up. They don’t even know what Alastair wanted in this godforsaken town.

 

Summer 

_“Why did you lie to me Cas?!”_

_“To protect you. There was no reason to burden you with the truth.”_

_“Yes, there was! I could’ve helped you. Could’ve handled this whole mess better knowing what I signing up for. Ever heard of free will?” Dean explains, angry and disappointed, the old wounds ripping open._

_Cas squints, nostrils flaring._

_“So you could run headfirst into trouble? Getting Sam, Bobby,_ me _in danger?!”_

_“No, of course not! But- We’re supposed to be a team, man. Whose side are you on? Don’t you trust me?” Dean roars, the anger running through him like hot liquid._

_Like an old-fashioned showdown, they stare at each other, frowning, neither willing to back down. The fury between them almost manifests itself, air thickening and crackling as if Castiel is flexing his powers to make Dean cower. It fuels the fire in Dean’s veins even more._

_“Stop that! Don’t you dare use your powers for this shit.”_

_Cas sighs, regaining his composure._

_“I just wanted to keep you safe, Dean,” he pleads._

_Blue meets watery green._

_“And I appreciate it. Hell, you did a pretty good job, but you should’ve been honest, Cas. What else didn’t you tell me?”_

_Slowly Castiel’s face morphs into Sam’s features, blood pouring over it. Dean doesn’t know where it comes from and it’s so fucking much. He tries to move to help his brother, but he’s frozen in place, can only watch as more and more blood covers Sam’s body._

_“Why didn’t you safe me, Dean?” Sam asks him, while the skin on his face peels itself away, layer after layer, until only the white of his skull remains._

_“Why didn’t you safe me?” he asks again, pearly teeth crunching together and splintering._

Dean wakes up drenched in sweat. Nothing new. He stares at the ceiling and starts counting his breaths until his heartbeat has slowed down.

Cas looks up from his battered copy of _Frankenstein_.

“Do you want –“

Dean doesn’t need to hear the end of the sentence, he knows where it is going.

“Fuck off, Cas.”

What Dean actually wants is for Cas to find out where Sam and his father are. But he knows it’s impossible. They argued about it in length.

_“There’s practically a bounty on our head, Dean. Revealing myself was dangerous enough before, now that you’ve killed Alastair it’s literally suicide. You don’t want to know what they will do to you.”_

_And Bobby hadn’t heard from the two of them in nearly two years. Vanished, like ghosts._

Expressionless, the angel turns his head back to the book. It fuels Dean’s own anger and disappointment, knowing that Castiel is masking his. A vicious circle they’ve been stuck in since Dean has dragged Cas out of the church and sped away.

As if the guy has any right to be angry with Dean. _He_ is the one who was dumped with the information that the angels, agents of everything good and holy, are working together with hell, to bring about the apocalypse and Dean Winchester right in the middle of it. A year and a half ago he was drinking on Bobby’s porch and wallowing in his misery. Now he is chasing down demons and angels, trying to save the world with Castiel by his side, both of them not knowing what it takes to do so.

Cas, who has lied to him, had known about heaven and hell working together. Cas, who has a will on his own and who had decided that what heaven was doing was wrong. Cas, who has given up everything to protect this small fragile planet. Has given up everything to save, to protect Dean and find out why the supernatural realms work together, what their plan for the Winchester’s is.   

Dean turns his head to study Cas’ profile in the lamp light – the stubble, the grease between his eyes, the way he licks his lips, unnecessary for him, a habit _so so_ human.  

_Can’t go back, can’t go on without him_ , Dean thinks and closes his eyes.

This summer Dean’s dreams are filled with violence and guilt. His nights are spent with waking up and either searching the nearest bar to drink himself into a coma or closing his eyes to try to sleep again. The emphasise being on trying. Behind closed eyes, he relives his own torture and imagines what they will do to his family.

He’s constantly torn apart between running after them – wherever they are – and marching on to gather information and stop this mess before it even begins –keep them safe by being away. He’s lonely. He graves closeness, intimacy. Doesn’t matter on which level, but his sex drive is literally dead and so he doesn’t even try to pick someone up and Cas, well Cas, is keeping his distance and Dean doesn’t know how to ask for forgiveness or be diplomatic or just ask for Cas to fucking hold him again so he can sleep through one night peacefully.

He’s cranky and distracted, and finding and stopping Azazel, their best (and only) option of accomplishing anything, is harder than expected. They cross the country, not really knowing what to do.   

Autumn

Suddenly they do. God bless Bobby Singer. He calls them to talk about some kind of myth regarding Colt, a door to hell, which was locked by Colt himself. The door is located in Jasper, Wyoming and as coincidence, or in this case not coincidence, will have it, demonic omens have started to appear. Something big is going to happen if demons want to open the gates of hell.  

It takes them two days to reach the place described in the myth – an old abandoned cemetery in the middle of fucking nowhere surrounded by train tracks functioning as a devils trap – but the moment they arrive, CCR belting out ‘Bad Moon Rising’ from the radio, Dean can feel the same charged energy as in Texas. Something is definitely here. Cas, even more than Dean, can feel it as well. By now, all it takes to communicate this is a shared look between them as Dean parks the Impala and kills the engine. The sudden quiet is eerie.  

As they leave the car, hands wander to weapons automatically, bodies moving as stealthily as possible. Dean’s rib from the banshee case in Georgia is still busted, ensuring his every move to be painful – a sensation close to being stabbed over and over again as he crouches lightly and moves towards the cemetery. Bobby said he’d meet them here, but they don’t see his car or the man himself. From the way the fine hairs on Dean’s neck are raised from the sheer power in the air, he suspects that Bobby won’t make it. This is going to be over before he arrives.  

It only gets worse the closer they get to the cemetery. It takes a while for Dean to realise that it’s not his injury nor the warm air which makes it hard to breath.

“Dean, look,” Cas suddenly says and points to the ground. The train tracks are melted.

“Fuck.”

With even more caution, they approach the gates. Through the bushes and the headstones they can make out a figure, walking towards the only big building, an old mausoleum. A second later Dean recognises the object in the figure’s hand – the colt and his blood runs cold. All caution is forgotten as Dean starts running, shouting insults, ready to kill the son of the bitch, startling a swearing Cas into action, unbeknownst to him as his world focuses on the person that holds something in their hand they shouldn’t.

Dean starts shooting, but the bullets never hit their target. Instead, they come to a stop mid-air and drop down on the grass. The figure turns around. Two yellow eyes zoom in on Dean, he loses the ground beneath his feet, swings through the air and lands on his already broken rip. Lying face down on some poor bastard’s grave, he fights to regain his breath.

He’s given no time to do so. Azazel pulls him upright, turns him around and keeps him immobilized on the ground. These fucking demons and their stupid body controlling powers. 

“I underestimated your stupidity, boy,” he taunts and kneels down, “But I’m glad you’re here now. Even brought your angel boyfriend.”

Dean doesn’t care about the insult, looks at Cas fighting his way to Dean (where did these people come from?), looks at the colt and hopes.

“Where did you get that?”

Azazel’s face morphs into disbelieve, a mocking smile on his lips.

“You’re not _that_ stupid.” The demon crouches down.  “I ripped it from Sammy’s dead fingers, of course,” he whispers right into Dean’s ear like a secret, grinning.

“You’re lying.”

Still grinning, Azazel locks eyes with him.

Anger surges through his body. But he knows from earlier experiences that fighting against the restrains won’t help. So he does the only thing he can do: he spits into Azazel’s face and tells him to go to hell.

The demon raises, wipes the spit from his face. Looming over Dean he says, “It’s your fault, you know. All you had to do was say yes and this whole plan would’ve gone down smoothly. Daddy, Sammy? Alive. But you and the angel had nothing better to do than wreak havoc, kill my subordinates. Well, it’s always good to have a plan B. Sit back, Dean, and enjoy the show. Maybe that’ll change your mind. You know the magic word.”

Whenever Dean recalls what happens next it always feel like this moment happened on another place where the laws of time and space don’t exists, the events of this afternoon always slow and fast at the same time:

Azazel walks over to the mausoleum. At the same time, Castiel breaks through the barrier of demons, who had appeared out of nowhere, smiting every last one of them, disregarding the human souls still inhibiting the bodies.

(What Dean doesn’t know is that it doesn’t matter to Cas in that moment. What are a dozen, a hundred, a thousand souls, compared to the soul of Dean Winchester?)

As he rushes towards Azazel, blade ready to sink into flesh, the demon pushes the colt into a contraption, not caring that an enemy is approaching from behind. And he doesn’t have to. A flash of light and suddenly Cas is not fighting the demon, but another person – male, dark-skinned, an angel – that tries to stab him. Cas turns around. Sword meets sword. The other angel steps back and demands for Castiel to stop. He doesn’t.

The ground starts to rumble, the devil’s gate has been opened. Hundreds, thousands of souls, blackened by the pit, rush out into the world. Dean feels the invisible chains drop, is blinded by temporary darkness. Then, through the souls rushing by, he can see Cas fighting demon and angel. Dean doesn’t think, his body acts on his own. He runs to the gate, tries to close it, can’t and takes the colt instead. It’s much much later that he wonders why he was released, why the colt was still in the door.  

Two things happen at once.

With an unnatural precision, thanks to adrenaline, Dean shoots Azazel through the head as the opportunity arises.

But his body is not the only one that slumps to the ground. At the same time, the other angel has gripped Castiel.

“You will join your brothers and sisters, Castiel, to worship the Lamb of God, not _him_. You will watch this world being remade. Then you will be punished.”   

“ _Dean!_ ”

Another bright light appears and Castiel’s – Jimmy’s? – body lands next to the demon’s.

Cas is gone. Where to, Dean doesn’t know. Doesn’t know if he’s dead. For a moment he’s frozen, then his legs move and kneel next to the body, cradling Cas’ face in his hands, looking for signs of life, desperately calling his name. His blue eyes stare into the sky, lifeless. Dean doesn’t get the time to bury him or burn him.

There’s a crackle, a crash like lightning striking. Dean looks up, follows the direction of Jimmy’s stare. In the sky, the clouds start to swirl, faster and faster, opening up a black hole.

Total silence.

With a deafening boom, a sound like a hundred cannons firing at once, a big white column erupts from the sky and shoots towards the earth, lands next to him on the mausoleum, darkness and light combining.

Dean only knows one thing: he has to run. He runs to the Impala, briefly regrets leaving Cas’ body behind as he starts the engine. Dazed, in shock, with pure fear boosting him, he starts to drive away. The darkening sky catches up to him quickly. He only notices the constant whistling in his ears when he reads the sign ‘South Dakota 107’.

_Bobby_ , he thinks. Dean doesn’t know where else to go, what else to do. The apocalypse has started and he doesn’t know how to stop it. Briefly the thought of calling the angels flashes through his mind, followed and replaced by Cas’ hurt and betrayed face.

His family is dead, Cas is dead – _maybe_ , his mind screams at him, tears welling in his eyes – and he’s alone. Not totally alone, he reminds himself. He hopes Bobby is alive and well, hopes that he can make it and warn him, save the only one left of his family. They have to do _something_! They have to stop it.  

Cas sacrificed himself to safe this world, the least Dean can do is follow his path.

Dean is 25 when the end of the world begins.

_Revelation 6:1_

_And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, Come and see._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. If you find any mistakes, feel free to point them out.


	5. Part II - Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a million for your kudos and your patience!!!

**Part 2 - Chapter 1**

**Corinthians 15:52**

_In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed_

_I_

Getting back home to Bobby is harder than expected. With the blackening of the sky come thunderstorms and rain; rain that resembles floods so that driving is made sheer impossible. Dean manages to get to the nearest Travelodge at a speed of nearly zero while rain is drumming on the roof like war drums and the tires slowly lose their grip.

The elderly Asian woman behind the counter looks up from her magazine as Dean enters, shaking water from his hair.

“Looks like the end of the world out there, huh?” she says, trying to make small talk.

He tries to smile at her attempt, but his lips form more of a grimace than a smile. He’s not in the mood for crappy small talk, nor does he think he’s able to form a complete sentence without screaming.

“Single,” Dean mumbles and remembering his manners adds, “Please.”

Just because it’s the fucking apocalypse doesn’t mean one has to be rude. Or something.

Getting the message, the woman continues the transaction in silence and hands him the keys.

“Second floor.”

“Thanks.”

Sprinting to his car to get his stuff is like being hit with needles. It’s only water, but it certainly feels like the sky is trying to murder him. As fast as possible he rushes back in, past the reading woman and up the floor into his room. For a few seconds he doesn’t know what to do. He stands behind the closed door, dripping water all over the floor, mind empty. Dean doesn’t know how long he’s stuck at the same spot until the starts shivering from head to toe. His mind starts focusing on survival. If he starts thinking about the past day he’ll likely either starts crying uncontrollably or trash the room. No looking back. What he needs to do is move forward: Shower, sleep, call Bobby, drive. He does the first one, tries the second and ends up turning and tossing in bed, sleep the furthest from what he can achieve. Dean can’t sleep, can’t breathe. His lungs feel like the black smoke has made a home inside of him instead of this world.   

Dean promises himself that he’ll drive as soon as the sun is up. But it doesn’t happen. The darkness turns into a gooey greyness, clouds obscuring the sun, rain falling falling falling. The only indication that a new day has started are the slowly changing numbers on the digital clock next to the bed. He fears that this won’t change for a while. He hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday’s lunch but he still feels like throwing up, like his body is trying to get rid of the disease that is spreading inside of him.

In an attempt to change his train of thoughts, he starts dialling Bobby’s number on the ancient phone beside the bed with shaking fingers. There’s the insisting monotone beeping of a call not connecting or of the caller being unavailable. He calls a second time and a third with the same outcome. By then he figures that something is wrong. Dread spreads quick like fire in his heart, his head. Briskly he walks downstairs, hoping that it’s not Bobby. _Please, don’t let it be Bobby._

The new shift has arrived as Dean approaches the office. There’s a middle aged guy behind the counter, no hair, grey beard, thin like a stick, watching the news from small grey eyes. They turn to Dean for the fraction of a second before he points to the TV with his hands.

“Seen the news today?”

Dean gulps, carefully approaches the counter, afraid of something which isn’t able to hurt him through the fucking TV screen.

“…experts say that the strange weather occurrences happening across the US and spreading across the globe appeared out of nowhere,” the screen cuts to a man being interviewed, “It is hard to predict how long these phenomena are going to stay because we’ve lost connection to our satellites. What we do know from colleagues is that other parts of the world seem to suffer from slightly different but still big problems. We’re talking sudden spikes in temperatures, wind so cold you’ll freeze on the spot. It’s as if the planet has finally decided to get rid of us.” The screen cuts to the studio and the pretty news anchor. “After the break we’ll have Nigel Tavish in the studio talking to us about possible effects and what you can do to stay safe.”

As an advertising jingle starts, the man behind the counter turns to Dean. It doesn’t register with Dean what is being advertised, his mind replaying the words, pictures flashing through his mind. It takes him a second to realise that he was being talked to.

“...alright, man?”

“I tried to call someone. I think the phone in my room is dead,” Dean says, sounding wooden even to himself.

“Sorry, sir. It’s not your phone, it’s the line. It’s dead, has been since yesterday evening. The weather, you see,” he says, let’s the sentence unfinished and looks sheepish, as if this mess was his fault.

Dean nods. Stays, unable to move. Only when the guy looks seriously uncomfortable does he say, “I’m checking out.” Albert, as his name tags states, turns to the computer and asks, “Name?” Dean can’t remember the name he gave. “Winchester?”  

There’s an uncomfortable second of silence where Albert’s brow scrunch together as he looks at Dean, then back to the computer.

“I’m afraid we have no guest with this name.”

“Checked in yesterday afternoon, around 6.”

“There’s a Clifford here.”

“Yeah, that one then,” Dean says with a dismissive tone. He just wants to leave and from the way fucking Albert looks at him he wants the same.

He leaves the guy to do his business to get his stuff from the room, leaves the key card on the way out and is back on the road. As he turns on the engine KISS’ _Heaven’s on Fire_ starts playing. Ready to drive his baby against the nearest wall he turns off the radio and drives in silence.   

*

On the way back to South Dakota he keeps calling Bobby from every diner he finds but to no avail. The phone lines are dead. The rain keeps falling, wind blowing it aggressively at everything and everyone, trees bending sideways from the pressure. He’s forced to drive slow or drive not at all, aware that supernatural forces are deliberately against him. Dean grits his teeth and keeps driving.

It takes him three days to arrive at Bobby’s. Three days of near sleepless nights, listening to the rain and eventually the thunderbolts racing across the sky, of pointless calls, news stating that it seems to get worse instead of better, his heart constantly pounding in his chest.   

Seeing the scrapyard releases the breath he’s been holding since Wyoming, even though it doesn’t stop the forceful beating of his heart. In the darkness, just before the witching hour, the house looks empty and menacing, daring Dean to come closer. His headlights reflect in the windows before Dean turns off the engine. Waits. There’s no movement. Shaking, Dean takes his gun, holsters it, takes Cas’ blade and finally his shotgun filled with rocksalt and eventually leaves the car.

He’s drenched to the bones as he walks to the door. It’s locked. It only takes him a minute to pick it, going through familiar motions before he silently opens it. The living room to his right is empty, books strewn around as always, no signs of a fight. Without making a sound, knowing which floorboards creak with added weight, he wanders to the kitchen, organized chaos. The fridge hums. He turns around, ready to investigate the rest of the house and freezes instead of shooting, his blood running cold.

“Hello Dean,” Cas stands right before him, illuminated briefly by a flash of lighting.

Dean shoots. The rocksalt hits. No ghost. A demon then? The shotgun clatters to the ground, the blade finding its way into his hand.

Cas, wide-eyed, takes a step back, hands raised.

“Dean, it’s me!”

Upstairs lights turns on, footsteps thumping down the stairs. The lights in the kitchen turn on as well.

Bobby’s confused and sleepy, “What the fuck?” barely reaches Dean as he looks between his surrogate father and his – dead friend.

“Boy, put that sword down. For your own damn good. Jesus – what – did you break into the house?”

He doesn’t put the sword down. Doesn’t say anything. The Cas-imposter doesn’t move, Bobby (not Bobby?) sighs. He walks to the cabinet close by, all the while Dean scrutinizes him. Bobby hurts himself with a silver knife, then pours water over it.

“Could be fake,” Dean says, still reluctant.

“Oh for god’s sake. Last summer you drunkenly confessed –”

Embarrassed, Dean cuts him off, “Yeah alright alright.” Slowly he lowers his weapon. His gaze catches Castiel’s.

“Calm down, Dean. It’s really me.” He lowers his hands. “Calm down.”

He wants these words to make him angry, but spoken in Cas’ soothing tone of voice he does calm down. And cracks.

“I saw you die,” he whispers, afraid of the sob that is lodged in his throat, the tears forming at the corner of his eyes.

“You saw Jimmy die. I was taken back to heaven. Well, or at least they tried to. I escaped as soon as I could. But you were already gone so I came here.” Dean could see the sorrow in his eyes, how he mustered Dean, his face staying carefully neutral. He was waiting for Dean to make his next move.

“Dean I’m –,” he’s unable to finish his sentence as Dean throws his arms around him, pressing a warm, alive body to his, hiding his face in his neck, hiding the tears. “Sorry,” Cas whispers into his hair and holds him. If Dean weren’t such a coward he would kiss him.

The anxiety from the last few days melts away; Dean doesn’t want to cry and holds on tighter instead to release the tension. When he feels stable enough, he let’s go and even manages a small smile. It’s only now that Bobby interferes by putting his hand on Dean’s shoulder gently and saying in an even gentler tone, “You should get some sleep, son.”  

He does.

*

Dean needles Cas all morning to get details on his escape, but the angel is quiet and deflects all questions, focusing on Dean’s well-being. As if that mattered. Bobby, cursing loudly, walks into the kitchen at some point, scratching his head and putting his cap back on. Seeing the look on Dean’s face, he grumbles, “Been tryin’ to fix the electricity. Died a couple days ago, we’re using the generator but the fuel will run low at some point.”

Dean’s gulping down his coffee with raised brows. “Really? Worked fine in Rapid City.”

“When was that?”

“Geez, two days ago?”

He watches as Bobby sits down with a frown.

“To be fair, it was the phone lines first,” he consoles Bobby and has two pairs of concerned eyes watching him. It makes him nervous, conjuring back the guilt. “Haven’t you heard? The worlds ending,” he says half-laughing. He’s the only one.

Bobby smacks his lips. “About that.”      

Slowly, as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders, not Dean’s, he settles on the third chair, a frown wrinkling his face beyond his actual age.

“Cas and I’ve been lookin’ into that. How to stop it.”

Dean falls back in his chair, a desperate laugh escaping him.  

Cas catches his attention, leaning forward, trying to enter Dean’s space. “There is a way. They may have started it, but they need you, need -,” he stops, swallowing his words. Dean stops laughing, challenging Cas with squinted eyes to go on. “They need you and your brother to finish it. The final fight needs to be fought on earth. And they need vessels. In the meantime -”

With grief and restless energy cursing through him, Dean stands up, walking around the kitchen like a caged tiger.

“Sam’s dead. You heard Azazael.”

“What?” Bobby half-shouts incredulously. Cas ignores him, solely focused on Dean.

“And you believe him?”

Silence. “What else is there to be believe in?” Dean says hoarsely.  

A chair scrapes loudly against the kitchen floor. Bobby is standing in front of Dean, fists balled, out of breath despite having been seated mere moments ago.

“Are you fucking serious? Some evil son of a bitch tells you your brother is dead and you believe his bullshit? Just wanna give up? Just ‘cause it’s easier?” Bobby asks furious, right into Dean’s face, hot breath ghosting over it, eyes wild. “Forget it. _We’re_ gonna find a way, find your brother while we’re at it, too, no matter how much it hurts. Don’t you dare -!”

Leaving unfinished words hanging in the air, he turns back around, walks over to the cabinet and unscrews a bottle of whiskey with a huff. Cas doesn’t say a word, looking between Bobby and Dean. A quiet certainty settles in Dean’s gut, heavy as a stone. He did promise himself to save this shithole, why not also safe his presumed dead brother while he’s at it? This certainty comes with the knowledge that he probably will die trying. Nothing to loose, he tells himself, avoiding looking at Cas. Slowly he nods, “Ya, ok. Ok. So where do we start?”

*

There’s no sense in leaving with violent storms sweeping across the country. They’re holed up in Bobby’s house, sifting through his books, reading up on anything even mentioning the apocalypse. Their best bet is still the Bible. Bobby has several of them in different editions. The electricity is still dead, they’re trying to preserve as much gas as possible, but it’s a constant worry on top of all the other shit. When they’re not picking apart any and all lore they can find, they’re trying to recreate Sam’s and John’s steps.

After an especially exhausting day in which tension was high (too many frustrated people being to close) Cas finally breaks his silence. Dean’s sitting on the porch, in need of fresh air to prevent cabin fever, a glass of the waning whiskey in his hand when he’s joined by Castiel. Even though the angel has dark circles underneath his eyes, his shoulders slumped with tiredness, he exudes a kind of angelic glow. Dean’s tempted to reach out, touch him and pull him closer. Turning his eyes away, they both stare at the rain steadily falling from the sky, listening to the rushing sound, the drip drip drip from the roof to the overflowing rain barrel.

“I couldn’t bare what they were doing to him -- to you,” he starts, “I didn’t know that they were conspiring with hell. I – I would’ve done something sooner,” Cas continues quietly, barely audible underneath the background noise. Dean looks down at him from the seat on his chair, Cas poised on the stairs, avoiding his gaze. “I stood by as they put him through torture on earth, obeyed their orders because I thought it was the right thing. I started questioning them too late. Only when they ripped him out of his heaven and you went missing all of a sudden. The things I did, it’s unforgivable.” Dean realises that Cas has come to the same understanding as he did a couple of days ago while Bobby was screaming at him. Atonement through martyrdom. What a pair they make.  

“Cas, how did you escape heaven?” he carefully asks, whiskey forgotten. Drip drip drip.

“They didn’t care about me leaving the first time. The second time I burned my way back.” Cas swallows visibly and looks down at his hands, examining them with utmost care, still avoiding Dean’s eyes. Dean doesn’t know what to make of his words, what they mean in terms of an angel. What it means for Cas. There’s more to this then he lets on at the moment, but it’s enough for now (“I don’t know why I’m different, Dean. Why I’m able to _feel_. To doubt. But I do. Shouldn’t it be enough?”). He’ll come around. Dean hums noncommittedly, trying to sound less pissed than he is.          

 

_II_

In the safety of his home, with the apocalypse raging outside the door baring its ugly face like a grinning maniac, Dean dreams about him and Cas. It’s the first time in months that a remembered dream isn’t a nightmare. When he wakes up, the shadowy images very present in his mind, he wishes it was – he doesn’t know which ones torment him more, he wishes he could stop dreaming.

*

Weeks and weeks later the rain suddenly stops. And so do the storms and other unnatural weather phenomena. Having this sudden quiet, Dean realises how accustomed one gets to noise and chaos. How the boundaries of what you’re willing to endure stretch like a rubber band until you snap. Waking up to this stillness in the air makes them walk outside to have a look themselves, rubbing their eyes as if waking up from a daydream. The problem is that it’s just as unnatural as the storms. The air feels stuffy, hard to breathe in; no wind, no sun, just endless grey and nothingness of sound.

It’s the best time to leave. At first to go and make a supply run to the city. Dean expected the place to be empty and deserted, but the opposite is true. It seems that everyone has the same idea – stock up on goods as long as this creepy quiet lasts minus manners and a civilised approach. People don’t know that it’s the end of the world but they feel it. Panicked they roam the streets, the supermarkets, gas stations, fighting each other for the last drop of oil, the freshest fruit, the frozen meals. Sioux Falls is a war zone. Cas, Bobby and Dean barely manage to make it back home. The haul doesn’t cover everything they need. Tough luck.

Waiting for a few days more, the plan is discussed as follows:

“So Cas and I follow my dad’s and Sam’s route, try to find them, recreate their steps to see what they found and hopefully find some solution to this mess in the meantime, easy peasy.”

“And I’ll check on Rufus’, see if the old bastard’s still alive, get some information from him. What about communication? Phone line’s dead and from the way things look, won’t change.”

“We’ll meet back here in a month and discuss anything new then.”

*

A month can be a long time. A month can feel like an eternity, crammed in a car with the person you desire. It’s driving Dean crazy for several reasons. For one, his brains seems hardbound on spitting out strange amalgamations of nightmares and wet dreams; one moment he’s being fucked by Cas, the next someone stabs him and his blood coats Dean’s naked figure from head to toe. It leaves him horny and frustrated and most of all scared. He’s no stranger to picking up foreign man in bars and clubs but there’s the crux, they’re strangers and Dean has always been a love them and leave them kind of guy, especially with his father’s homophobic views lurking just around the corner. Secondly, Dean can’t deny that some of them are still so deeply ingrained in his very being – loving other men is wrong, being gay or bi or whatever is just plain wrong that he doesn’t even want to think about it. And thirdly, it’s Cas.

Sometimes while Dean’s driving, Styx or Eagles playing softly on the stereo, he feels the need to reach out take Cas’ hand, a need so strongly his nails bore themselves into his hand, leaving deep imprints. Always Cas is reading a fantasy or sci-fi novel, unaware of the turmoil going on inside of Dean.

A few times he tries to run away from this, at least emotionally, by flirting with the gorgeous waitresses from diners or bars. But his heart and his dick aren’t in it and the people they encounter get more and more hostile. It leads nowhere, except to Cas asking him what his problem is. Dean tells some bullshit macho lie to Cas’ unimpressed wrinkled forehead.

The rest of the time, when Dean’s not mentally freaking out, they follow any small morsels they have and get from his family’s whereabouts like a scavenger hunt. It leads them across the country. They meet people so grateful and thankful for what the Winchesters did for them, they’re willing to tell everything. When a tearful mother recounts how her son was saved or a group of students give an account of how they survived because of Sam and John, Dean begins to wonder about all the lives he’d saved, all the good this shit job has given others. It makes him feel better about himself. Even for a little while.  

But for all the positive they encounter there’s a bunch of negative. Without electricity and sunshine, humankind begins to go crazy, little by little. That’s the problem about a globalised and digitalised civilisation. There’s only so much chaos, deprivation and difficult conditions people can take, raised in an age where everything has to be easily accessible, before they start to loose it. And when they do it’s the government, political institutions, they first turn their anger to and when that’s not an option anymore, it’s each other. This tension even translates into interactions between the two of them via petty arguments, bitchy comments or passive-aggressive silence. Thinking about the greater good (and in Dean’s case affection) is the thing that calms them down after such a fight. 

One day they roll into a small suburban town which looks at first glance empty and evacuated, bickering about some childish odds and ends, when shit really hits the fan for the first time. Some cars block the road looking like toys strewn around by a kid, no pattern or order. There are open doors and abandoned houses as Dean slowly navigates through the town. A couple miles along the road, after Dean had to take a detour due to the main street being completely blocked, Cas spots a convenience store that looks like it hasn’t been looted yet. He parks the Impala in front of the store with big glass windows and darkness looming inside. As always, they enter with drawn guns held protectively in front of them and carefully walk through the store, pocketing everything edible, drinkable, usable. It’s quiet, uneventful, until Dean rounds a corner, his heart speed rocketing. In front of him, lying on the ground is a mutilated male corpse, the blood flowing freely. In a split second the realises that someone else is in the store, and that someone has just killed another guy.

“CAS!” he shouts loudly, his cry echoing around the store, argument forgotten. He hears Cas running towards him at the same time a woman with short blond hair and black eyes, attacks him by pushing him against the nearest shelf. Cans topple to the ground with a crashing noise, his gun falling from his hands, while the woman squeezes his windpipe with a manic grin. Dean struggles against the hold. But all he achieves is that he scratches at her unmoving hands while his air supply is cut off. Dark spots appear in his vision. Just when he thinks he’ll fall unconscious, air floods his lungs and his attacker is violently ripped away from him. He slides to the ground, coughing, holding onto his throat as if trying to contain all the air like an oil spill. Composing himself for a moment, he look around to locate his gun. It won’t kill the demon but incapacitate them for a moment, enough for one of them to exorcise them or for Cas to use his blade.

What happens instead is that Cas pushes a hand against the woman’s forehead and a bright light erupts from within her. The demon screams while his eyes and mouth are burning. Shocked and blinking, Dean watches as the body crumples to the floor. Cas turns around, heavily breathing for some reason and falls to his knees before Dean, his head bowed to the ground as if praying to the other man.

Worry laced through his words, Dean says, “Cas? Are you ok?”

Cas nods and slowly rises his head, musters Dean.

“Are you?” he rasps. Dean nods back.

“What the hell was that?”

“I’m a soldier, Dean. I do have a certain arsenal at my disposal. I just never used it before to keep you hidden.”

Groaning, Dean stands, holding out his hand to Cas, savouring the contact, and helping him up as well. Making sure that Cas won’t fall, Dean steadies him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Why did you use it now?”

“Convenience. But it was a bad idea I’m afraid.”

They collect their bounty and walk back to the car with careful steps.

“Is that normal? Are you usually, you know, uh this exhausted after using them?”

Cas shakes his head, “No. It’s because -,” he falters for a moment, “because I’m cut off from heaven. My powers are dwindling,” he ends sounding defeated.  

Dean stops in his tracks, rooted to the ground by invisible chains. The implication of that, what it could mean –

“What the fuck, Cas?!”

As always, the wrong words for what he actually wants to say.

Shoulders sacking, utterly defeated, Cas turns around and sighs. “Not now. Let’s talk about this later.”

Problem is Cas underestimated the term later. Outside a siren starts screeching and it’s getting closer and closer to their location. Frantically they run towards the exit, hoping to leave the store before being found, not knowing what it means, not in the mood to find out.

They don’t make it and they do find out what it means. It means a group of survivors living in a church being led by a demon posing as a prophet that will lead the unknowing sheep to their damnation by manipulating their reality. It means Cas and Dean saving as many as possible by killing her, confronting the towns people with the brutal reality that they’ve killed family and friends under false belief. The events haunt Dean for days on end. Empathy and his imagination make it hard for him to differentiate, for him to not fear that this could’ve happened to him as well, that he trusted Cas too easily.

His upset stomach and shaky hands are being fuelled by Cas, who tells him that fleeing from heaven meant cutting his ties, that his grace is dying until he is fully human. Fiercely he assures Dean that he freely choose this, knowing the consequences, that he is not afraid. Doesn’t mean that Dean isn’t.                 

And that’s when things start to get ugly, take a turn for the worse, cities turning into war zones, villages become barren, its citizens fleeing starvation. After a while, seeing a burning house or a corpse being eaten by the crows becomes a regular sight. Dean, Bobby, Cas, Rufus – they all stink of desperation whenever they meet to talk updates.     

 

        

_III_

At some point, supplies start to diminish. All established structures are gone, the government helpless. People horde what they can find and get, fighting to keep their children alive. To keep themselves alive. It’s like being thrown back into the Middle Ages with the added spice of denial. Some people try to keep living normally, pretending or whatever it is, that everything is fine. Business as usual, just another shitty day.

Dean starts reading the Divine Comedy due to a morbid interested of what comes after.

Sitting on a bench in the north of Montana, strategically placed to enjoy the landscape that borders on Canada (pine trees and mountains and green green green), Cas tells him, “It’s just a bunch of abstract ideas and contemporary political commentary. Gabriel had too much fun talking to the poor guy and sprinkling the truth with nonsense,” turning a page in a heavy book written in Old Latin, stolen from the local university.  

Putting his finger between the pages, Dean looks up with wide eyes and says, “Gabriel? Like the archangel?” As always, his curiosity is woken by a throwaway comment from his companion.

Castiel also stops his reading and stares at Dean. The latter knows that Cas knows that questions like that either lead to longwinded explanations or funny ideas. Cas can see the glint in Dean’s eyes, Dean is sure of it with the way Cas scrutinises him.

“Yes,” he says, hesitancy resonating in his voice.

“So would you say Gabriel likes us? Humankind?”

Cas takes a while to think about the question. A long while. Dean starts bouncing his leg, biting his nails. A plan is forming in his mind, a spark of hope.

(He ignores the voice that tells him that there’s another way to stop all of this.)

“The changes are good he does. He actually left heaven a long time ago. We didn’t know where to, but there aren’t that many places. We all suspected that he came down to earth.”

With the same glint ignited in his steely blue eyes, he bends forward over the table between them, his head close to Dean’s.

“You think he-?” Dean starts, voice trembling.

“Might help?” Cas finishes. “He might. And he might know something that he is willing to share.”

Smiling, for the first time genuine in a long time, he says, “So how do we find him?”

“You could pray to him. He may listen.”

Dean closes his eyes, concentrates hard, his hands wiggling across the wooden surface and hesitantly starts to call out to the archangel. His focus is drawn inwards, ignoring all other things. It might the first time in his life he actively listens to his heart pumping blood through his body, his lungs filling him with air and the heaviness of his limbs. When he’s finished he waits and waits. There’s no answer. So he tries again but still no answer. He tells Cas.

“What now?”

“Well we could summon him. We just need to get the ingredients for the spell.”

Dean’s eyes nearly buck out of his head. “You can do that?”

Cas nods, a pleased little smile appearing on his face. “With the right components, yes. However, it won’t be easy to get them.”

Grinning with joy Dean closes the book. It doesn’t solve the problem of his missing family but it does help with a positive outlook on the future. The bubble of happiness that bursts inside of him fills his inside with warmth. A feeling that had nearly become unfamiliar to him. He hopes it doesn’t translate onto his face, hopes Cas won’t see the pure affection he feels for him, how badly he wants to take his head and close the distance between them. Instead, he turns his head away, drinking in the scenery around him, imagining that Castiel was the one that had formed this beautiful corner of the world with his hands. Or whatever angels looks like in their real guise. Turning his head around, he observes Cas as he goes back to reading with a little wrinkle of concentration on his forehead. The decision to ask at a later point is easy to make. Much more enjoyable is watching him for now. To steal several glances without being noticed.

(He is.)     

While the world hungers, Dean’s hunger doesn’t concern food or drink. 

 

_IV_

They are not the only ones searching for something. In their pursuit to not only find traces of Dean’s missing (hopefully not dead) family, but also rare ingredients to summon an archangel, they encounter something in search for blood and destruction.

They are following a lead for Holy Oil in Nebraska when a clue to Sam’s and John’s whereabouts suddenly turns up. A chocolate-skinned professor, with warm brown eyes, specialised in ancient middle eastern history, not only freely opens her door to them but shares what little food there is in her cosy living room upon hearing Dean’s last name. She not only possesses Holy Oil in an old ceramic amphora. With a smile and flying hand gestures, she talks about the djinn that had nearly killed her, showing her her deepest desires and how Dean’s family had saved her. Sam and John left shortly after, telling her that they had gotten a phone call from an old friend in Jackson asking them to come to Mississippi. Hearing the word ‘Mississippi’ Dean’s face falls and he has to take a deep breath to calm himself. Not fucking again. Nevertheless, the way she sends them on their way, kissing them both of the cheek, brightens his mood.

“Good luck and hopefully till next time.”      

It’s down to Mississippi _again_ to the songs of The Doors and Jim Morrison because Cas has apparently taken a liking to their music, especially Jim Morrison’s lyrics. Getting the cassettes was a spur of the moment thing. While driving south Dean had stopped at an abandoned gas station that luckily still had some fuel, and found them lying in a basket, originally declared as ‘Old Cassettes Still Working 1$’. As Morrison’s voice, a cross between talking and singing, filled the car the first time, Cas leaned back and closed his eyes, only sometimes opening them to repeat a song. Dean finds them too poetic too really like them but he doesn’t care. He happily lets Cas listen to them over and over again only to see him relax and enjoy it.   

Rolling into Mississippi _again_ is significantly different from their last time. If the state was full of nothingness before all hell broke loose, then this is a whole new level. There are entire abandoned small towns, cars parked right on the Interstate, decaying corpses inside the vehicles and outside on the streets. At least until they arrive at the outskirts of Jackson. From the way it looks, it’s clear that people have barricaded themselves in the city, flocking together for safety. The downside to this, as Dean and Cas quickly realise, is also the danger that sits laughing and invisible on every person’s shoulder. They stop at the first somewhat good-looking motel they spot and make it their temporary base.

While asking for Dean’s family in roadhouses, diners and bars by showing pictures and trying to be as vague yet truthful as possible, they are in the later, as a black man stumbles through the doors, pours gasoline over himself and takes out a lighter, crying, “Fuck you!”

Dean sees the whole spectacle with eyes wide open and tries to run up to the guy to stop him from doing something completely stupid, but is too slow. He hears Cas’ shocked, “Dean!” just as the guy lights himself on fire, his screams and the smell of burning flesh filling the bar. The patrons flee, some of them screaming as well, others merely running to the exit, used to shit like this happening. Dean and Cas follow them. Outside they watch with dazed and confused faces as the bar slowly but surely catches fire and burns down to ashes, heat kissing their skin, the orange glow replacing darkness with light.

“What the fuck?” is the only thing Dean is able to mumble, trying to wrap his head around the event he’s just witnessed. Cas’ elbow to his ribs snaps him out of it. His lips are pursed, face tightened in anger. His eyes point to the outskirts of the crowd that has gathered. Subtly Dean looks at the indicated direction to see a man in a business suit grinning, fire reflecting in his black eyes for a few seconds before the turns away and disappears into the darkness.  

Sighing, Dean says, “Great.”

*

Their search leads them to a house stinking of rotting flesh with a family of three sitting on the couch and apparently having died there; a man who has drunk himself to death in a 7-Eleven and a woman having stabbed another woman over a pair of shoes. Dean ascribes it to normal madness taking hold now that the end of the world is in sight. The attack on them sets him right. Being surrounded by seven black-eyed assholes in yet another abandoned house makes it pretty clear who they’re dealing with.

“It’s a shame we have to kill you, Dean. You were so _very_ helpful after all,” a beautiful blonde tells him in a sugary voice, her breasts nearly openly on display. He doesn’t know if it’s sarcasm or honesty dripping from her words.  

Another gorgeous woman adds, gloating, “But be rest assured: there is a special place in Hell, reserved only for you. Best seat in the house. To watch your world become ours.”  

The rest grins.

The fight against them is brutal and painful. One demon is bad enough but seven of them, _the seven_ , are exactly how they are described: deadly. Afterwards Dean doesn’t know how they actually managed it, is sure that if it wasn’t for Cas he really would have died. But with their backs against the wall, cornered like scared animals, Cas in an act of desperation holds them in check while Dean screams an exorcism at the top of his lungs, glad that he has decided to learn them by heart. In a tornado of black smoke that bores itself into the ground, The Seven vanish.

Bruised and battered they drag themselves to their motel room, bleeding, and in Dean’s case with a fractured rib from what it feels like. He’s barely able to hold the wheel, his vision blurring. He has to blink every two seconds to not drive them into a ditch and kill them after all. The pain in his ribcage starts to radiate across his chest as the adrenaline fades. They make it to the motel and into their room stumbling and holding on to each other.

“Dean, let me,” Cas grunts, his palm landing on Dean’s chest as they enter the dingy room.

“No,” Dean grunts back just the same, “Don’t –” His hand circles Cas’ wrist but it’s too late. Already white light runs across his skin like electricity and the pain fades. Grunting again Cas falls on top of the the nearest bed, eyes closing.

“Cas?” Dean asks, scared and confused in the aftermath. No answer. He stumbles closer, leaning over Cas’ face, watching for any signs of life. He feels shallow breath warming his cheeks for a second and sighs in relief. Cas is merely asleep. Feebly his ass hits the other bed, his whole posture sacking into itself. Watching Cas’ sleeping form, the tears start to fall. Dean closes his eyes in agony, trying to stop them but to no avail. His head falls into his hands and the tears turn into sobs.    

*

A few days later they find a gaunt George Darrow who tells them that Sam and John saved him from a deal he’d made and the hellhounds that had come to kill him. And how he used goofer dust to stall the hitherto inevitable. Cas demeanours changes from passive listener to active questioner. With the charm of an angel who learned to be nice under Dean Winchester’s tutelage he asks (demands) for the dust. Darrow looks at Dean, taken aback by the tone of voice. Dean merely smiles and shrugs. In the end he gives them the black dust and the information that John owns a storage in New York that might be worth checking out. It’s better than nothing.

*

_And Hades followed with him._ Demons roam across the earth freely. They encounter them at every turn after Mississippi - spreading chaos and animosity that leads to death and more death. Dean is sick and tired of seeing the faces of the dead behind closed eyelids. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Feel free to point out any mistakes, thanks.   
> [tumblr](https://furoremswritings.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you see any mistakes, feel free to point them out, thanks.


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